


Empire's End

by goldenEY3



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-03 18:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 321,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11538177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenEY3/pseuds/goldenEY3
Summary: Aevar Ironclaws is both a Space Wolf and a Tech Marine. With centuries of experience, he is one of many skilled Tech Marines called to Holy Terra to try and fix the failing Golden Throne. But in his hunt for a solution, he discovers the Imperial Truth. With his faith destroyed, will he be able to help save the Imperium, or will he be branded a traitor and oath breaker?Cross-published on fanfiction.net.





	1. The Golden Throne

Aevar Ironclaws knew how to handle the cold. As a Vlka Fenryka, a Sky Warrior, he was used to Fenris’ destructive summers and numbingly frigid winters. As a Tech Marine, an Iron Priest, he knew how to handle the damaged machine spirits that dwelled in armor, vehicles and weapons. He knew how to sooth them, appease them, and gently coxing the most use out of their metal bodies, how to create weapons of genocide and massacres.

And as the Allfather’s Chosen, a Space Marine, an Adeptus Astartes, he was bred for battle and slaughter. He knew how to fight, how to wage the most brutal of wars, to pull victory from the very jaws of defeat, and how to kill quickly and efficiently in the endless wars that humanity was engulfed in. His gene-enhance body was big, strong, and all but immune to the effects of age, the very pinnacle of what humanity could be.

But here, he was at a loss. He was nowhere near his home world, the death world of Fenris; instead, he was traveling to the very heart of the Imperium, Holy Terra, with nearly two dozen of his brother Astartes, Iron Priests all of them, and a smaller group of tech priests, men and women who were cybernetically enhanced members of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

The closest Aevar has ever been to the seat of Humanity was when he was sent to Mars for his training and induction into the Adeptus Mechanicus, where he was taught how to be an Iron Priest, to build the very tools of war that were needed, and that was many centuries ago. Here, he was not known as a Sky Warrior, revered by all mortals as a demigod, treated with fear and respect. Instead, he was curtly nodded to and called a ‘Space Wolf.’ Even the tech priests, barely more than mortal humans, seemed to look down their nose at him; quite a feat when Aevar stood over seven feet tall.

Aevar knew of the mistranslation, what outsiders thought the runes of his brotherhood stood for. He knew that he should welcome it with pride, but he could hear how it rolled off the tongues of his fellow Astartes, namely the Ultramarine sitting across from him in the gunship. It was contempt for him and his Chapter, thinking they were simple-minded barbarians.

Aevar wanted to break one of the naysayers in half, either with his very hands or the two metal servo-arms mounted on the back of his battle plate, but such actions would not be tolerated by his fellow Astartes, the tech priests, or the small group of Adeptus Custodes standing behind them on the Thunderhawk gunship. And while he might fantasize about it, he knew he would only be playing into their flawed reasoning, justifying a simpleminded belief. Not to mention it would undoubtedly upset the Custodes.

Space Marines were tall, but the Custodes were taller still. If Aevar screwed his eyes, looked at them sideways and forgot every battle song and shred of lore he’d ever heard, he was sure that he could mistake one for the Allfather, the God-Emperor of Mankind, before his internment onto the Golden Throne.

He had only heard of the Custodes, but knew well of them. While Space Marines were genetically augmented humans, they were as mass produced as a bolter. The Custodes were all individually selected, their augmentation processes uniquely custom, based on the needs to be one of the few bodyguards who protected the Allfather. As an Iron Priest, Aevar had seen the difference between massed-patterned war gear and painstakingly, lovingly made killing tools. The latter always cut through the former like butter.

One of the Custodes stepped forward, easily swaying with the moving gunship as they descended to Holy Terra.  
  
“We will be arriving at the Eternity Gate soon,” he said. Aevar could hardly take his eyes off of his battle plate. He had seen many master-crafted pieces, but none so beautiful as the one the Custode wore. The black metal looked like pure obsidian, and seemed as if it was sculpted from clay, not beaten from metal. He couldn’t find a single out of place etching or seam; it was beyond flawless. “We require that you surrender your weapons to us. None shall be armed in the presence of the Emperor, save his guard.”

The small team of Custodes walked through the ship, taking weapons. The tech priests, with their many cybernetic arms, had to disconnect mounted weapons to hand over.

Aevar bit his tongue, did his best not to growl, and gathered his weapons as the Custode approached. He drew his small paring knife that he kept at his waist, then Katla, his thunder hammer, and Iounn, his bolt pistol. Katla was one of the first weapons he made, and he could speak without pride that it was one of his best. She had two wide, flat heads that used to be perfectly smooth, but repeated use had bent it out of that perfect level, giving her character.

Before surrendering Katla, he looked himself over in her reflection; after all, he was going to see the Allfather, the Master of Mankind. His hair was long and lacquered, in perfect form. The occasional braid was tight and properly formed, and the hair that was not braided hung straight down. He kept a simple band around his wrist, in case he needed to tie his hair up, to keep it from his eyes.

His hair used to be black, but time had given him more than plenty of silver/gray, one of the only indicators of his true age. His beard was similarly salted, but was perfectly trimmed, coming down to his chest. He might be neigh immune to age, but time still had its way of marking him. It also was able to mark his skin, giving it a craggy, leather-like consistency.

With his hair in check, he surrendered Katla to the Custode. Unlike others in his pack, he hadn’t adorned Katla with golden wolf carvings or busts; why make one side the fighting side when you can have two killing surfaces? He made up for it by adorning her with totems, bones, runes and aged, tattered pelts. Katla rattled as the Custode carried her away. She was scarcely out of his grip for one minute and he was already missing her comfortable weight.

He surrendered Iounn, handing her butt first to the Custode. More totems rattled, and suddenly he felt bare, patting at the empty holster under his left arm. He even missed his simple paring knife, and that was more of a tool than a weapon.

“Once we have landed, you will be lead into the Sanctum Imperialis,” the Custode continued as his brothers gathering botlers and hammers and flamers from the others. There was even a massive, obsidian broadsword that a Salamander brother surrendered. “A word of warning: make no sudden movements. While we do not doubt your loyalty, as the Guards of the Emperor, we take no chances.”

“Understood,” Aevar said, his voice low and his neck raised, barring his throat to show submission. Such an act was lost on the other Tech Marines who gave their acknowledgments, as well as the Custodes.

If I were on Fenris, they would know that I am submitting to them, Aevar thought. He caught himself, and growled in displeasure. But I am not, and can’t dwell on such things. I’ve been chosen, and I must perform my duties to my absolute best.  
Aevar didn’t know why he was summoned, but kept such curiosity buried. An open mind was a dangerous thing to have in such a dark time for humanity. Danger was everywhere, and all it took was one tiny slip to invite disaster, or the foul tinkering of Chaos.

The cabin of the ship shook as the ship touched ground. The doors hissed open, and the Custodes stepped out, leading the small group of tech marines and tech priests. Aevar was one of those to walk out last.

Around him was the Eternity Gate. One kilometer across and nearly half a kilometer in height, it opened to the dirty, polluted air of Holy Terra, and lead deep into the heart of the Imperial Palace. Ornate gold, silver and bronze shone in the afternoon light, showing the histories of untold trillions of the Imperium’s heroes.

Aevar tried not to gasp, but he found it to be beyond him; after all, it was his first time on Terra. He could hear many others of his fellow tech marines gasping as well, and even a few of the human Tech Priests who accompanied them. The Custodes politely waited for them before heading deeper into the Palace.

“I never thought this would be so beautiful,” a tech priest said. Aevar looked over, seeing a thin human man. His face was mostly human except for his lower jaw, which was constructed from cybernetics. Four servo-arms sprouted from his back, each as thin as his flesh arms, and were idly clicking away. The man’s eyes were large, soaking in every piece of the Palace.

“You’re right, brother,” Aevar said.

“Is this your first time on Holy Terra as well?” The man asked, picking up the pace so as not to be left behind. Being but a human, he had to nearly jog to keep pace with Aevar.

“It is.”

“Then I am not the only one in awe.”

“Of course not. Many of the battle brothers here have never set foot in such a holy place as well.”

“I see.” The man thought for a second. “If I may, do you know why we were called here?”

“Watch your curiosity, brother.”

“I am very careful with the guarding of my mind. ‘Blessed be the mind too small for doubt.’ I simply find it strange that so many of the Adeptus Mechanicus have been called to Holy Terra, and were not given a reason for our sudden summoning.”

Aevar had to agree with the tech priest. When he was whisked away from Fenris, he was amazed that Imperium ships could move that fast through the hellish dimension that was the Warp. If his ship was not at the hands of five veteran Navigators and a team of Inquisitors to help mask their trail, he was sure that they would have attracted the attention of a Greater Daemon, maybe even a Daemon Prince. Warp tides could have dragged them off, losing them among time and space, and hardly anyone would miss them.

“You’re not the only one,” Aevar said carefully. Death did not scare Aevar; when he ascended to the Vlka, one of the many changes made to him was the ability to feel fear; it was all but burned from him. Instead, he was scared, actually scared, that he might be caught blaspheming in the Imperial Palace, that he would be mistaken for breathing heresy.

He would rather cut his two hearts from his chest than to even think of committing heresy.

“Do any of your Space Marine brethren share such feelings?”

“I haven’t asked them.”

“Are you not all of the Adeptus Astartes?”

“Other chapters haven’t been very…eye-to-eye with us,” he said. “They view us a brutes and barbarians.”

“I see,” the priest said, one of his servo-arms clicking. “Oh, how rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Legato.”

“Aevar Ironclaws.”

“It…is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, brother. Now, shall we see what we are needed for?”

 

* * *

 

The doors to the Sanctum Imperialis were pulled open, and the tech marines and priests fell to their knees. Aevar was shaking as he prostrated himself before the remains of the Allfather.

  
Dominating the center of the throne room was the Golden Throne. Meters tall, it towered over even the Custodes, who stood along the edges of the room. Tall stairs lead to the seat, where the Allfather sat. Hardly more than a mere withered corpse, the Allfather was still massive, easily as tall as a Space Marine, possibly taller than a Custode.

Dried skin was stretched across his body. Occasional patches of skin were missing, revealing bones of pure white, with minimal cybernetic interfaces drilled into his remains. But behind the bones were his dark organs, slowly rotting away. A few times, Aevar saw one flex as it pumped fluids through his body.

Behind the Allfather were cybernetic tubes and pumps plugging into his holy body, pushing blood and more fluids into and from his remains. Aevar could hear the death rattles of the sacrificed psykers behind the throne, and he could swear that he could feel the psychic essence of the Allfather, even though he was not a psyker himself.

Without those psykers or their sacrifices, the Allfather would truly die, torn from this realm of reality. And should that come to pass, then Chaos and the daemons that controlled them would surely win. Humanity as a species would die; that could never, ever happen. That was why the psykers were sacrificed, and for whatever reason, they were brought to Holy Terra.

Next to him, Legato was quickly reciting prayer after prayer under his breath, his face pressed against the ground, alternating between High Gothic and Binary. To his left, Aevar saw his Astartes brothers pulling their faces from the ground to stare at the Emperor. There were tech marines from the Ultramarines, Salamanders, even the Blood Ravens, and just as many tech priests from the holy vaults of Mars.

Soon, the group were able to pull themselves from their knees to stand. The Custodes stood around them, keeping a careful eye on them.

“Welcome to the Sanctum Imperialis,” one of the Custodes said. “You have been brought here to work on the most noble of causes the Imperium could ever hope of you. You will be given quarters, access to the most holy of relics, technology and patterns, and every available piece of knowledge you could ask for. In return, you will work to fix the Golden Throne.”

Aevar thought his mind would fail him for the second time.

“Custode, forgive me, but what could possibly be wrong with the Golden Throne?” He asked.

“Our brother is correct,” a brother from the Salamanders said. He was bald, and spoke in an equally deep voice that was as dark as his skin. “The Golden Throne has kept the Emperor’s psychic essence anchored on this plane for millennia. It was crafted by the Emperor himself. What are we to do?”

The Custodes shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly it felt that Aevar’ mind would fail him for a third time.

“What we are to tell you must never leave the Palace,” the Custode said. “Our most ambitious and dedicated tech priests from Mars have been examining the Golden Throne for a decade, and they have come to the same conclusion; the Throne is failing us.

“It requires more power than ever before; more psykers must be fed to it daily to ensure it functions. Too much has been lost in the years after the Heresy; as of yet, we have not found a way to repair the Throne, and we believe that it is a matter of time until the Throne fails the Emperor.”

“But, Custode, that would mean…” Legato stammered.

“That the Emperor will finally die.”

Everyone was shocked into silence. It was by the Allfather’s immortal will that the Imperium of Man spun. Their only means of faster-than-light travel was to travel through the Warp, as loath as Aevar was to admit it; all Vlka Fenryka hated warp travel. And the only way to travel the warp was by the Allfather’s beacon.

He was the metaphorical north star in the warp. To lose the north star meant that warp travel would become impossible. And if the Allfather’s chosen, if the Adeptus Astartes, could not travel the stars, how would they fight to keep their enemies at bay? Small skirmishes would bleed entire sectors dry. It would be the End Times for all of man.

“How can this be?” A brother Ultramarine asked. “He is the God-Emperor, surely he could instruct us on the repairs.”

“We must not let simple superstitions fool us,” the Custode replied. “Since his internment upon the Throne, we can only communicate with the Emperor through Imperial Tarot cards, and even that is vague at best. The Emperor has been beyond our communication since Horus rebelled; we cannot rely on his help.”

“Then why select us?” The Salamander brother said.

“You are all the wisest in the ways of the machine spirits. You will aid the Mechanicus stationed here in their attempt to repair the failing spirit of the Golden Throne. Or do you not believe that you are worthy enough?”

“You mistake me, Custode. I was of the belief that there were others more qualified than me, not that my skills with the machine spirits were sub-par.”

“There is no need for modesty here, tech marine. We have conferred with the greatest priests of Mars, even the Fabricator-General himself, and you were picked because of your talents. Everyone we have gathered is among the most skilled tech priest that Mars has ever produced, and you will help them in any way you see possible.”

“But Custode, won’t our work with the Golden Throne draw the attention of the dark gods?” Legato asked. “The Changer of Ways thrives on pulling men into the dark pit of forbidden knowledge.”

“A worthy concern. But fear not, for we are in the heart of the Imperium. The Emperor will protect us from any of the foul tinkering of Chaos. His mighty will makes it so. But, we would not be doing our duty as the bodyguard of the Emperor of we did not ensure that every single threat on his life went unchecked. Every standard week, we will examine you, your quarters and your works with a team of psykers and Inquisitors, searching for any threats of Chaos.”

“Thank you, Custode. That is all the reassurance that I need,” Legato bowed.

“Good,” the Custode said. “You will be shown to your chambers. You begin your work on the morrow. But guard yourself; you will see things that no man, mortal or otherwise, has seen since Horus killed the Emperor over ten thousand years ago; possibly ever. We will demand a great deal from you. Some of you may be asked to never leave Terra.”

Aevar swallowed. It was a hunt, a hunt for the truth. And the Vlka Fenryka loved hunts. But a hunt changed the hunter…how would this change them? How would this change all of them?

 

* * *

 

Tears streamed down Legato’s face as he cried uncontrollably at his table. He tried to compose himself, but he was failing. His mind seemed too small to comprehend such a blessing. To even be considered for such an honor, so soon. He had barely been working on the Throne for a standard week, but they thrust this task upon him.

“Hey, Legato, you’re a genetor, aren’t you?” The Space Wolf Aevar asked, walking up to him. “…Are you crying?”

“By the blessings of the Omnissiah,” he sobbed, “I have seen the Emperor’s holy genes.”

“They let you see it?”

“I begged them not to; how can I be worthy of such an honor? Of such a blessing?” He tried drying his eyes. “T-they wanted me to try and transmute blood-types; the blessed machine that had done that had failed, I was to make a new one. It tall order, but an order that I have to carry out. I aim to turn genes from psykers to the very genes of the Emperor himself. And to do it…they made me examine the Emperor’s holy helix.”

“Damn. I’d be weeping myself if I got to see that.”

“The very image of the blessed helix is burned into my eyes. I’ll see it to my dying day.”

“Well, what was it like?” Aevar asked.

“Perfect. Perfect in every way.”

“Fucking better be. This is the Allfather we’re talking about,” he chuckled. “Morkai’s balls, I think I’m almost getting used to working on this Throne.”

“I doubt any of us will truly ‘get used’ to it.”

“Too right! Mind if I borrow you? I could use your help with the gene-work that needs to be done to the Throne. I’m good at it, but I’m not the best.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Legato said, getting up from the table he sat at. He still shook from seeing the Emperor’s holy, perfect genes.

“I’ll never understand how the Custodes become so accustom to it. Fuck, I could use some mjod.”

Aevar idly tugged at his matted and locked hair as he spoke. Wiping away the tears, Legato could see the age in his hair and his face. His face was lined with wrinkles, tanned from age, and his hair was a mix between dark black and a shockingly pure silver/grey. But he moved, talked and acted like a young man. Was it his superhuman Astartes physiology, or some weird quirk? Nearly all of the other Space Marines were dour and tact. Aevar was crass, even crude.

“Mjod?”

“Right, this is Terra. Mjod is a drink. Poisonous to humans, it just gets us buzzed.”

“You…drink?”

“Of course! It’s practically our duty as a Vlka Fenryka.”

“Well, if it’s your duty to drink, then it’s the Custode’s duty to guard. As it is ours to examine the Throne and save the Emperor.”

Aevar led him to the back of the massive throne, where another tech marine, a Salamander, sat examining a scroll and a section of wiring and tubing that lead into and out of the throne, and the Emperor.  
Legato didn’t blame Aevar’s discomfort in the least; his servo-arms were slightly trembling, twitching at the slightest provocation of his overworked nerves. Behind them, the death rattles of the sacrificed mutants had turned into a dull background noise, easily forgotten.

“It’s a fair enough point,” Aevar said with a shrug. It was obvious he was putting on an act of disinterest. Aevar gestured to the Salamander. “Have you met Croan?”

“I don’t think I had the pleasure.”

“Well then: Legato, this is Croan Dragonsword,” Aevar said with a flourish. “Croan Dragonsword, Legato.”

“Are you the tech marine who made that massive broadsword?” Legato asked.

“The very same,” Croan said. As a Salamander, he was a massive, obsidian skinned Marine.

“It is a beautiful blade.”

“Many thanks,” the Salamander said. “Legato, it is an honor to meet you.”

“Enough about honor, let’s do our fucking jobs,” Aevar smiled. “Can you tell what that scroll says? I think it’s a blueprint for the structure of the throne, mapping the flow of what appears to be blood fluid.”

At the feet of Croan was a scroll, impossibly old. Legato knelt down to the fragile piece of vellum, for fear of tearing it.

“Can you decipher it?” Croan asked.

“No, I can barely understand what the writing means. By the blessed machine spirit, this might be the Emperor’s own handwriting.”

“Shit. Guess there goes one potential lead,” Aevar grumbled. “How goes your work, brother?”

“Agonizingly slow,” the Croan replied. He rubbed a hand over his bald scalp. “The technology we could use from this is astounding, but it is beyond me.”

“It is almost like forbidden technology, not meant for us,” Legato said.

“Nonsense,” Aevar chided. “We’ve been chosen to work on the throne. We must do our job, and do it as best we can.”

“I wish I could share your enthusiasm,” Legato said.

“You were the one who talked about doing our duty,” Aevar replied.

“I never said that it was easy. It feels like I’m working slower than a slug.”

“A slug can still travel distances, given time.”

“Wisdom from a Space Wolf?” Croan chuckled. “Never thought I would see the day. But you do speak the truth, brother. We must finish our work. There is no greater need for it.”

“'Blessed is the mind too small for doubt,'” Legato recited. “I find the Imperial Teachings failing me one by one, and in the very seat of Humanity, no less.”

“The universe is filled with strange and terrifying things,” Aevar said. “We must face them with the staunchest of determination.”

“I wish I could have your enthusiasm,” Legato said. He closed his eyes, but all he could see the blessed genes of the Emperor dancing in front of him.

 

* * *

 

 

The machine stared at them. A simple energy transfer module, it’s machine spirit had stubbornly refused to cooperate.

“If I spend another minute staring at this,” Legato groaned, “I’ll be seeing this and the Emperor’s genes in my sleep.”

“It has to work. I cannot see the fault with the circuit,” Croan sighed, his massive Space Marine bulk heaving from buried annoyance. His back-mounted servo-arms twisted and rotated in annoyance. “I can only think of rebuilding the entire machine,replacing the troublesome mechanical spirit.”

“If we take it apart, I sure can’t put it back together,” Legato said. “If it was anywhere else but the Throne Room, I believe we could try it, but we need to repair it, not destroy it even more.”

“Even if we were allowed to remove such a component from the Throne Room, I doubt I would be able to do so.”

“Still not used to being so close to the Emperor?”

“Yes, as strange as it is, I am,” Croan said. “I am supposed to be working as if this was another job to be done, but in the Throne Room? On Holy Terra? This is almost too much. I can barely bring myself to look at the Emperor.”

“Few can,” Aevar said, walking up to them. Legato jumped. For such a large man, even by Space Marine standards, he moved far too quietly. “How goes it, brothers?”

“Vexed, unfortunately,” Croan said, not visibly bothered with Aevar’s silent approach. Legato, however, still had a small urge to fear Aevar. Native Fenrisians inspired it wherever they walked. Space Marines radiated it despite themselves. A Space Wolf, being both, compounded the feeling. “We believe this to be a power exchanger. It is broken, and its machine spirit refuses all of our attempts to repair it. Can you spot the flaw and sooth it?”

“Let me see,” Aevar said, kneeling. Like Croan, he wore a simple carapace instead of his power armor. His servo-arms mimicked his real arm movements; they pawed the ground, making him look like a six legged animal. His long, matted and sometimes dreadlocked hair hung down, and he occasionally brushed it away. “Can you activate the relay?”

Croan complied, giving the machine a fraction of the blessed energies of the Golden Throne. It sparkled, but nothing happened. Aevar leaned on his arms, and his servo-arms began to work the circuit. The tips of the claws broke apart, revealing drills, welding tips, solder ends and cutters. They worked in a mad fury, linked to Aevar’s very brain. Occasionally Legato heard him mumbling the prayers and blessings, but for the most part, he was quiet.

“Try again.”

Croan did, and the machine sparked, but died. Aevar’ servo-arms went to work again, and he was silently muttering prayer after prayer. He leaned on his real arms, shifting his weight. He tried a third time, then a fourth time, each time the spark of energy growing in length, but ultimately flickering off.

“Is the machine spirit broken?” Legato asked, hoping to be proven wrong.

“Course not,” Aevar said, “it’s just a little stubborn. What it needs some tender, loving care to nurse it back to health.”

“’Tender, loving care?’” Croan snorted. “Today is truly a day of blessings. I have heard words I never thought to hear from a Space Wolf’s lips.”

“They’re words I would only use for the blessed machines. And a few hearty Fenrisian women,” Aevar laughed. “Some need a kick, a screaming, or a good curse. But others need a more refined, gentle touch.”

“So when will we hear the Space Wolf curse?” Croan asked.

The machine sparked, flickered and faltered, then caught and glowed brightly as the energy was fed through it and passed along.

“Not today, unfortunately,” Aevar said, bringing himself to a kneeling position instead of resting on his hands.

“We have spent the entire day trying and failing to fix it,” Legato said. “How did you know what to do?”

“It’s just like a hunt. You just have to follow the energy, the footprints, and it’ll eventually lead you to where the problem is.”

“You must be touched by the Omnissiah,” Croan said. “I’ve stared at that thing until it was burned into my eyes.”

“I’ve heard that talk before. If I’m blessed, then I am. But as far as I’m concerned, I just have a knack for soothing the machine spirits.”

“’A knack,’ he says,” Croan chuckled. “I have seen that massive thunder hammer on your back. It is peerless, a true master crafted weapon of war. One does not simply make such a creation.”

“Actually, Katla was the first thing I made,” Aevar said.

“’Katla?’ That was your first weapon?” Legato asked.

“Aye, she was,” Aevar said.

“The Priests of Mars do not simply let aspirants make a thunder hammer as their first project,” Croan said.

“They sure as fuck didn’t!” Aevar roared. “Back when I was on Mars, they said they’d start us off small. But I was young and restless; I wanted to get straight to making earth shaking weapons. They told me to cool my heels, but I wanted one of those hammers, you know?”

“So you just ‘made’ a thunder hammer,” Croan said.

“Aye, I sure fucking did.”

“How did you know what to do?”

“Saw a few of them in action, so I had an idea of what was going on,” Aevar said. “Tried a few times, got nowhere, got pissed, so I just said ‘screw it’ and threw things together. Didn’t know what I was exactly doing, but when it was all said and done, I had Katla.”

“You just…made a thunder hammer,” Croan said, disbelief in his voice. He shook his head. “You truly are blessed by the Omnissiah.”

“I’m glad we have you with us,” Legato said.

“I’m glad to be here, brother,” Aeavr said. “Now if only I could bring myself to understand the workings of the Golden Throne itself, instead of a simple power converter.”

“For that, we are all in the dark,” Croan said. “If the Adeptus Mechanicus could have fixed the Throne, it would have done so long ago, and there would be no need for us.”

“Unfortunately, that is not the case,” Legato said.

“It is,” Aevar agreed. “What part would you like to get started on next, brothers? Hopefully our luck would hold out for that one.”


	2. The Golden Throne

Aevar growled in frustration as he gingerly set a tiny machine down on the library table. Legato couldn’t help but flinch; Space Wolves seemed bestial, and it didn’t help that Aevar even growled like an animal. It was clear he wanted to throw the machine far across the room. Where he found the patience to not throw it, Legato didn’t know. Against the animal growling, Legato couldn’t help but to minutely shrink back from the library table they sat at.

It was only a few hours since Aevar had helped him and Croan, and it was obvious that his luck did not hold out as much as he would’ve liked. The tiny machine Aevar had now refused to work, even for one blessed by the Omnissiah. Legato watched him fiddle with the machine, twisting it this way and that in his massive hands as they all sat at a table.

“The Allfather himself must’ve built every single part of this damned Throne himself,” Aevar said, rubbing his eyes.

“It certainly looks like it,” Croan said, pointing at the scroll he was reading. “This is High Gothic, over one thousand standard years ago, but the words themselves seem different, older. I can barely understand it.”

“Languages change,” Legato said. Between the two massive Space Marines, he seemed like a child. He wondered if the other tech priests were as ‘taken in’ by the Space Marines as he was. Both Aevar and Croan seemed to prefer his company rather than their brother Marines. “Words and phrases fall into and out of use and popularity, as do names. These scrolls must be beyond us, to say nothing of our other brothers working on the Throne.”

“Bullshit. I won’t believe that it can’t be fixed,” Aevar growled. His long, hardened fingernails bit into the table, but he stopped himself before he could gouge chunks of wood. One of the Custodes stationed in the library either heard or saw the action, for he turned his gaze upon him. Not seeing a threat, he returned to his post.

“This entire library _can’t_ be useless,” he continued. “There has to be something here that could lead us to the answers.”

“Guard yourself, brother,” Croan said, “some answers are best left unanswered, or the questions unknown. They might take you down the path of damnation.”

“I know what the Warp smells of,” Aevar said. “I know what traitors looks like, and what heretics sounds like. I’ve fought them and their ilk countless times before. I’ll not let myself fall to their traps.”

“And if you _were_ to fall?” Croan challenged.

Legato held his breath. He could feel both Space Marines’ tempers flare as they squared off, facing each other, their bodies preparing to fight. In Aevar’s case, the effects were visible.

Aevar’s hair bristled, standing on end, making him seem bigger. His nose flared, his eyes widened but pupils shrunk, and his mouth pulled back to reveal his long, gene-flawed fangs. Even though he lacked the acute senses of an animal, Legato swore he could smell the kill-urge on Aevar. It seemed to roll off him in waves, the work of the Canine Helix that pumped through his veins and made him into a Space Wolf.

Croan returned the gaze, silently staring back. He had no hair to speak of, and his skin seemed to suck in the very light around them. His eyes were a dull red, and they gazed out, meeting the challenge of Aevar’s gaze. Time seemed to slow as the two glared at each other.

“Then I hope that you’ll be the one to show me the error of my ways,” Aevar said after what seemed like an eternity. “Feed me to the fire to show me what true radiance looks like.”

“With pleasure, brother,” Croan grinned, his pearly teeth standing out against his black skin as he grinned widely. And like that, they were grasping hands, thumping each other on the back, as if they knew each other for centuries instead of months. “But until that day comes, what will you do, oh blessed by the Omnissiah?”

“Shut your mouth, you pyromaniac bastard,” Aevar laughed. “I’ll dig through the scrolls here, see what teachings the Allfather left behind for us.”

“You like this, don’t you?” Legato asked.

“Of course,” he said. “The Sons of Russ love a good chase, almost as much as we love a good fight.”

“And how is this a chase?”

“Because the answers are out there,” Aevar said, spreading his hands out in a wide gesture. “They leave tracks, signs of them being there. We have to follow them, and they’ll lead us to the glorious truth.”

“And of the Chaos awaiting us at every turn?” Croan asked.

“What hunt would be complete if the hunter wasn’t hunted himself?”

“You’re all mad,” Legato said.

“Of course we are!” Aevar laughed, standing up. “Do you think anyone could stay sane in a galaxy such as this?”

“Where is your hunt taking you now?” Croan asked.

“To where the answers are, brother. I’m going to root through the Allfather’s private library, not this depleted room of scrolls.”

“His private library?” Croan said. “The Custodes have given us access to everything _but_ that. The Emperor’s private chambers are forbidden to all.”

“I’m sure they’ll make an exception to save the Imperium.”

“Be cautious, this might be Holy Terra, but Chaos could lurk through any corner,” Legato said, shocked at what the Space Wolf was saying.

“I know the risks. And if I _do_ fall, Croan here better keep his promise, or he’ll be the first I kill,” he said, jerking his thumb at the Salamander.

Legato waited until Aevar left the library.

“The Emperor’s private library? He’s mad,” Legato said, turning to Croan. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Stop him?” Croan said. “I doubt that anything could stop a Space Wolf, even the Space Wolf in question. He wants his glorious hunt too much.”

“But he could be walking into a trap set by Chaos,” Legato insisted.

“Then let us hope he can fight as well as he boasts,” Croan said. “He has a burning desire in him to aid the Imperium, the Emperor himself. He wants those answers, and those who have the desire and the drive can achieve nearly everything they set their eyes on. We would do nothing but adding fuel to that burning desire if we tell him to stop.”

“I still don’t like it,” Legato said.

“As do I, brother. He will find himself in more trouble that he could possibly imagine, should he continue his mad hunt for the answers. But with the Golden Throne failing; what choice do we have but to humor his mad attempts?”

“If he were anyone else, working for anything other than this, the Inquisition would examine for the touch of chaos.”

“And he would burn for it, regardless of the outcome,” Croan said. “Investigating an unworthy subject wastes their time, and the Inquisition does not like wasting time.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar walked through the high halls, the twisted, glorious pathway of the Imperial Palace. His twin hearts were beating a step higher than normal, instead of his secondary heart resting until it was needed. This as a hunt, a search for the elusive pray. And he loved a good hunt.

He had spent too much time in the halls of the Palace. He needed to be outside, with the frigid, blowing air, with nature and trees and hunters and prey, not being stuck inside some stuffy building, even if the Allfather himself was in it. The long time spent inside chaffed at him, made him cagy, and made him eager to find the answers. He walked to the door of the private library, where two Custodes stood.

“Do you need help, Space Wolf?” One Custode said. He stood without a helm, allowing Aevar to look him in the eye.

“I want to look inside this library.”

“This is the Emperor’s own private library,” the Custode said. “Only the Emperor should walk in here. They hold secrets that only he could bear witness to.”

“I believe you should make an exception,” Aevar growled. He realized what he had said, how he had said it, a fraction of a second after it passed his lips.

The two Custodes bristled. Aevar inwardly sighed; the words were spoken, the challenge thrown, and nothing he could do about that. He stood up straighter and puffed out his chest, like any Son of Russ would do.

“You know what I’m here for, aye?”

“You are one of the Tech Marines flown in to fix the Golden Throne,” a Custode said. Aevar could smell the duty on the Custode, and that duty involved killing him if he made the wrong move. By the Allfather, he loved it.

“And I can’t do that if I’m barred from entering the library,” he said. “The Allfather himself made the Throne, right? Then it stands to reason that the answer to the Throne’s construction might be in his own private library, doesn’t it?”

“You overextend yourself, Space Wolf,” the Custode snarled.

“Do you want the Allfather to pass from this mortal realm?” Aevar challenged. The Custode’s eyes widened in fury. “Because I sure as Hel don’t. I want Him to stay seated on the Throne until the stars go out, and then reignite to start the whole damn universe over again. I want the Allfather to be the only true constant in this galaxy, _aside_ from Chaos trying to fuck my soul raw and bloody at every twist and turn. I want to do my duty to the Imperium, to the Allfather himself, and I can’t do that duty unless you let me into this library, so I can find the damn answers to that fucking Throne and fix it!”

The Custodes glared at Aevar, who stood straighter. He prayed to the Allfather that this might work.

“Go to your quarters,” one said. The other Custode turned to stare at his brother. “We will examine him for the taint of Chaos, then confer with the High Lords of Terra and the Ecclesiarchy.”

“You cannot be serious,” the other Custode said.

“It is true that we cannot let the Emperor slip into oblivion. As loathe as I am to admit it, the Space Wolf is right; the Emperor’s own private library would most likely hold the answer.” He turned to face Aevar. “But you must be found worthy before you set one foot inside.”

“All I ask for is the chance to serve,” Aevar said, baring his neck.

“Then go to your quarters. These despite times have truly called for desperate measures.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar stood as still as he could in his assigned quarters. He could feel the air move over his skin as the Gray Knight examined him. The two Custodes from the Library waited for the results. The room he was given was made for a mortal; one Space Marine made it seem small. Sharing it with a Grey Knight and two Custodes made it seem like a broom closet.

Aevar bit his tongue; he wasn’t supposed to know about Grey Knights. The Inquisition didn’t like it, but after the First War of Armageddon and the following Months of Shame, Aevar knew of them well enough. So he kept his mouth closed, and didn’t ask questions about the elusive, silver-armored Marine.

“You are…clear,” the Gray Knight said.

 _Of course I am,_ he thought. _I’d rather tear out my hearts and eat them before I turn traitor._

“Why the hesitancy?” He said instead.

“It is nothing. Just a strange request that we have to honor, and a stranger reading about you.”

“’A stranger reading?’ Stranger how?”

“You have...a glow about you,” the Grey Knight said. “One that I have never seen before.”

“Well, they do say I’m blessed by the Omnissiah. Thank you, brother.”

“I do not believe it is a blessing of the Omnissiah,” the Grey Knight said, “I do not think it is any kind of blessing, at least one I have seen before. But we can neither question your purity nor loyalty.”

“We shall accompany you to the Emperor’s library,” the Custodes said, none the happier.

“I thank you again,” Aevar said. “This could greatly aid in my search.”

“Steel yourself, for you risk drawing the attention of the Ruinous Powers,” the Gray Knight warned. “They will seek you out, even after you leave the heart of the Imperium.”

“If they want a fight, that they shall have it,” Aevar said.

“Enough chest puffing,” a Custode said. “You have work to do.”

“That’s right,” Aevar said. The only way to leave his small, cramped chambers was by a single-file line. Once freed from the tiny chamber, they began walking through the hallways towards the library.

How long has it been since he was truly outside? Even stepping outside of the palace didn’t feel like going outside; there was too much smoke on Terra, too much noise, and not enough fresh air. There weren’t even any trees or vegetation, none that was picked to grow in neat little rows or plots. He needed to go back to Fenris.

“Be warned, some roads will get you lost,” the Custode said as they drew to the doors of the library. Much to his surprise, Legato and Croan were there.

“Coming to join me, brothers?” Aevar grinned.

“Coming to see you off on your fool’s errand,” Croan smiled back.

“Please, watch yourself,” Legato said.

“Now that you asked me to, I guess I will,” Aevar chuckled. The Custodes keyed the entrance code, and the door clicked as it was unlocked. Aevar pushed against the door, and with a mighty groan, it opened.

“By the Machine Spirit, why hasn’t anyone oiled the damn hinges?” He grunted.

“We believe the last one to use the library was the Emperor himself,” the Custode said. “You should feel honored.”

Suddenly Aevar’s knees threatened to give out under him. The Allfather himself? Walk where he is about to walk? He paused to recollect himself. Legato and Croan didn’t call his hesitation to question.

“Well, when you put it like that…” he muttered. He took a deep breath and walked inside. The door closed behind him and lights slowly flickered on. A few tables were sitting every ten meters or so, exactly like every single library Aevar had ever been in.

There were massive shelves stacked high to the ceiling, and they were filled with scrolls. There were scrolls everywhere, and they were all ancient. Surprisingly, he was able to read the ancient High Gothic.

“There are some parts of languages that don’t change, then,” he said. “Wish Legato could see this.”

 He felt drawn to one scroll, so he took it and walked to the closest table. He sat down and gingerly pulled it open. He coughed as dust billowed from the table.

 _Imperial Order Number One Thousand and Twenty Seven,_ it read.

“Must be a history of the Great Crusade.”

He looked at the shelves. There was no marking, none that he could see. The Allfather must have memorized where all the scrolls were. He sighed.

“Then I’m to pick them out at random, find a method to the Allfather’s organizational methods.”

He carefully rolled the scroll up and began looking for more. He was in the Emperor’s library; what’s the worst that could happen?

 

* * *

 

In the weeks that Aevar had spent in the Allfather’s library, he had seen dozens of mentions of the Imperial Truth, but had never found it. His curiosity was piqued, and he had spent hours looking for it. But now that he found it, he had wished he had never heard of it.

 _Humanity would never be the dominant force of the galaxy until the last stone from the last church was cast down onto the last priest,_ the scroll read.

Aevar stared at the scroll. His hands shook as he read. No faith? No religion? No Imperial Cult? No Omnimesiah? This simply could not be.

But it was the Allfather’s own handwriting, he was sure of it. After reading countless scrolls in the library, he knew the style of the Emperor of Mankind, and this scroll was it. But what he was reading, it was beyond anything he had every wished to see. It was blasphemy, _heresy_ , from the Allfather’s own hand.

_The Ruinous Powers are powered by superstition, the by-product of the power of faith. So long as a single faithful human remains, humanity would be plagued by the forces of Chaos. This is the Imperial Truth that has been sworn to the planets of Mankind since I began the Great Crusades, and will be upheld until Mankind breathes its collective last._

_Faith and religion, including the cursed text Lectitio Divinitatus, shall be the very downfall of Humanity. Cast aside faith. Crush it under your foot and leave it for the worms that crawl in the ground. Science, technology and reason shall light the path of Mankind, not the religious dogma of Primarch Lorgar. I hereby order all copies of the Lecitito Divinitatus shall be burned, never to tempt those of lesser minds, or weak of will._

Aevar’s mind spun. Lorgar was a Primarch, a son of the Allfather, and a dirty traitor, one of the first to turn his back on the glorious light of the Allfather. He even pulled the Arch-Traitor Horus into the powers of Chaos. But he was not referred to as a traitor, simply as a Primarch. The scrolls in his hands must pre-date the Heresy.

But even that paled to the fact that the Allfather himself, in his own hand, called for an end to faith. What of the Imperial Cult, then? How could the Allfather allow the growth of the greatest religion Mankind has ever seen, if he abhors it so? What of the Omnissiah?

The truth fell on Aevar like a hulking kraken, risen from the depths of Fenris to feast in the summer waters. The Allfather was interned upon the Golden Throne, cut off from normal communication with Mankind; he was, for all intents and purpose, a deaf mute.

Aevar knew the history of the Imperium. In the chaotic aftermath of the Heresy, so much was lost, it appeared that it was truly the end of times. That was when the Imperial Cult rose; it stabilized the masses of Mankind, gave them shelter and courage to face the traitors and Chaos that remained, nipping at the bleeding carcass of the Imperium.

The Imperial Cult, the worship of the Allfather, had saved humanity. It _was_ humanity. The countless worlds of the Imperium had to share but one thing: the endless praise of the God-Emperor.

The truth was so great, so terrible, Aevar could only stare in awe at it. Humanity, once so hateful of religion, turn to it with open arms? It reeked of Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways. It was almost funny how Mankind has changed, so fast and so powerfully, it had to be planned, and planned well. Aevar unconsciously bared his teeth, and his arms, both flesh and metal, tensed as he saw the truth. It was a trick worthy of the great chaos sorcerer, the most hated enemy of the Sons of Russ.

He shook his head, as if to cast the idea out of his mind. Trick humanity into worship? That simply couldn’t be. It was one scroll, dozens of millennia old, amongst others. It had to be a trick, something planted to shake the faith of those weak willed. Aevar rolled the scroll up and threw it aside, neither caring how old it was nor how valuable.

“It would take more than that to shake my faith,” he said to the walls and ceiling of the library. The foul Chaos God would have to come into the library itself before he wavered one--

 _There could be no Chaos in here,_ Aevar realized. _Here, in the Palace of Humanity, on Holy Terra itself, the Allfather’s very will blocks all Chaos that would dare try to enter._

If there was one place in the galaxy that would be free of the taint of Chaos, it would be here.

Aevar stared at the scroll he had thrown away. Was it telling the truth? Holy Terra could not be breached by Chaos, not now, not ever, and certainly not in the past, regardless of how many millennia had passed. He bolted to his feet and ran to the scroll, gently picking it up with his flesh hands. It was undamaged. Good, that was good.

But it was still one scroll among countless scrolls. It meant nothing, even if it was the Allfather’s hand. It was an errant track, a mere broken twig that meant nothing; there needed to be more signs, more tracks to follow, before it lead to a trail, which would lead to the pray he was tracking. He needed more proof, more tracks, before he could say for sure if the scroll was telling the truth.

Aevar stood and placed the scroll on the table. Where to start? He had found the scroll almost by accident. It had fallen from a shelf, almost wanting to be found. He found it only because it had the Allfather’s Order on it.

“Think, damn you, think,” he muttered to himself, kneading his knuckles to his eyes. His servo-arms clicked as they opened and closed, rotated at the cuff and flexed. “Find the scent, follow the scent. It claims to be the Imperial Truth, so it would be the standard of the Imperium. It would be a law, of course!”

He jogged, almost ran, to the center aisle of the library, his bare feet pounding on the stone floor. He had found the law section long ago and had avoided it as best he could. It didn’t hold the answers that he thought they did, but now, they did. His hearts beat faster; it was a hunt, now. A hunt for a long forgotten truth in the Allfather’s own library. Aevar grinned. Now it was fun.

He ran down the aisles, scanning the shelves for anything that appeared to hold any laws from the ancient Imperium. He found many, skimmed them all, and cast them aside. Most were old court hearings of various cases of guilt; all minor, all not in the Allfather’s written hand.

Among the scrolls he didn’t need were those occasionally written by the Allfather; he wrote much, left much, there would be scrolls that he just didn’t need. Regardless, Aevar held onto them, running back to the table he was using and storing them there, on the off-chance he would need them. Then it was back to the aisles, looking for the elusive Truth.

Hours passed as he looked. He slowly found scrolls that appealed to the Imperium’s laws. He took them with him, making a new stack for them, and they slowly grew. The hours grew into days, but Aevar continued to search. He was sure he hadn’t slept, eaten or drank in days, but his gene-enhanced physique allowed him to continue, his will pressing him forward. The hunt was long and hard, but he was strong and patient. Slowly, he had an entire table devoted to the laws.

“Good enough to start with,” he said, looking at his work. He sat down and began to read. He skimmed the scrolls, and put most of them away; they were petty laws or otherwise unrelated to his search for the Truth. He kept the ones that mentioned ‘the Imperial Truth.’ They were the ones that were court hearings of those found guilty of spreading religion and faith. It was strange to see such strong faith be put on trial, so Aevar held onto them.

He pulled open one scroll, and gasped as he found what he was looking for: a description of the Imperial Truth to a newly re-discovered colony of Mankind.

_Cast aside your faith. It is the chain that will drag you down to damnation. The Emperor of Man needs no faith. The only faith you will keep is the Imperial Truth. Science and reason shall light your futures, shall lead to a better place, where Mankind truly rules the stars, instead of struggles against them._

His hearts hammered. Was this Imperial Truth a true thing? He placed the scroll aside and looked for another. The hunt was turning on him; he was no longer the hunter, but the hunted, running from the truth that proved the error in his ways.

Another scroll had the Imperial Truth in it, in more details than he ever wanted to find.

_The Primarch Lorgan is a traitor, casting aside the Imperial Truth and the golden light of the Emperor’s science for the dark, musty tomes of Chaos and faith. He has joined the Arch Enemy, joined Horus, and fought against the Emperor. By the order of the Emperor, before his placement upon the Golden Throne, any and all resources shall be spent to track down and kill the traitor._

It could not be true. Everything the Imperium stood for, a lie? Any enthusiasm Aevar had evaporated. He was staring the truth in the eye. The Imperial Cult was a falsehood. But why? The Imperial Cult saved humanity from the darkness of Chaos. It was the one true constant in the galaxy.

Or was it? The Imperial Cult said nothing about the Omnissiah, the Machine God, the god that blessed every machine the Adeptus Mechanicus created. It was a faith that Aevar himself held, living alongside the Imperial Cult. Only now did he spot the contradiction; it was a contradiction that was blatantly ignored by all.

The Cult stated that _only_ the Allfather was a god, surrounded by the forces of Chaos. Any other claims to divinity were by heretics or false prophets. But the Omnissiah was a god, wasn’t it? It said nothing about the glorious light of the Allfather. They seemed to causally ignore each other.

Aevar felt sick to his stomachs.

“Need to get out of here,” he mumbled to himself. He stood up and teetered. Could Chaos infiltrate the Palace, just to tempt him with knowledge? If it was knowledge, it was Tzeentch, the hated Changer of Ways. His skin rolled at the thought of being tempted by the god of the Thousand Sons. He would rather fall to Khorne.

“Try to tempt me, will you?” He said. Aevar knew what he had to do. He left the library, leaving his stack of scrolls deep inside. He pushed the door open with too much force, almost hitting the Custodes.

“Watch yourself, Space Wolf,” one said, easily catching the door in his massive hand.

“I think I’m infected with the taint of Chaos,” Aevar said. The Custodes stiffened. “Test me. Please.”

Aevar was thrown to the ground with such speed it astounded him. Then everything went black.


	3. The Golden Throne

The world slowly made itself known to Aevar. Slowly and painfully, he woke up. Groaning, he tried to move, but found himself chained to a stone wall, his arms and legs locked in thick, cold slabs. His shoulders protested as they held part of his massive weight.

He tried to move his servo-arms, but realized that they were taken from him. Even though he wore rough spun garments, he felt naked without the black carapace and servo-arms. The room was a stone dungeon, cold and black; even with his gene-enhanced eyes, it was dark. He tested his arms and legs. The heavy chains clinked as he pulled at them, but he could move all of his limbs. It was a start.

As he grew more and more alert, hatred started warming his veins.

“You lock me up like a rat? How dare you! I’m Aevar Ironclaws! Sky Warrior of Fenris, Son of Russ! The Iron Priest of Bjorn Stormwolf, Siege Layer and Siege Breaker, blessed by the Machine-Spirit! I’ve forged a thousand sets of power armor, for Blood Claws to Company Jarls! I’ve crafted millions of weapons, all masterpieces in their own right, tools of murder and genocide! I’ve found in the foul mucks of Armageddon, slain millions of Chaos cultists, butchered daemons, and fought the Thousand Sons! I will not be treated this way!”

Every Space Marine was enhanced with acid-generating spit to help them escape captivity; the Vlka Fenryka, the Space Wolves, were no different. Aevar bared his teeth and bit at the chains. The glands in his mouth swelled and contracted, generating acid to eat through the chains. It hissed as the adamantium resisted the corrosive spit, but Aevar kept gnawing at the chains. Given enough time, it would slowly dissolve even adamanitum, and Aevar had the will to wait that long.

The doors to the dungeon were jerked open. Light blinded Aevar for only a second before his eyes adjusted, just in time to see a fist being swung at his face. The blow rattled his brain and chipped a tooth. His head lolled as the world spun.

“I would not attempt such a breakout,” a voice said. Aevar blinked away the stars. “They might be seen as your attempt to escape, and that would greatly accelerate your trial.”

It wasn’t a Custode that hit him, but rather a brother Space Marine. Aevar sniffed the air, smelling the man. He was a psyker, a mutant, and a member of the Ordo Malleus, a Grey Knight. He wore simple, yet regal silver clothes, and held a tome in his hands.

“You, Aevar Ironclaws of the Space Wolves, came to us, saying you were infected with the taint of Chaos,” the man said. “I am here to test you.”

“Is the smell of Chaos on me?”

“Not to the casual glance, but Chaos is a tricky foe,” the Grey Knight said. “It works its way into the heart, making one slowly see it as the truth, instead of the corruption it is.” His gaze drilled into Aevar. He looked back with as much resolve. “It was good that you came to us. One must always be on guard when it comes to Chaos. And to our scans, you seem to have a strange kind of…glow about you. It might be a blessing from the Emperor, yes, but given the grave nature of this, we need to be doubly sure.”

“I have a request,” Aevar said.

“That is for us to decide whether or not you will get your request,” the Grey Knight spat.

“If the taint of Chaos is truly on me, have Croan show me the true radiance. Have him burn me.”

“You…wish that?”

“I promised him that, should I fall.”

“Very well. Your test begins now.” The Gray Knight turned on his heel and left the dungeon, closing the door behind him.

“You seek to test my patience?” Aevar yelled after him. “I’ve pounded shapes and forms into raw adamantium! Made the hull of a Land Raider from a single piece of mountainous ore! I’ve the patience of a rock, outlasting everything! Test me, and I shall crush each of your tests!”

The dungeon shook with his shouts, reverberating for minutes before slowly dying out. Aevar breathed heavily, waiting for the tests to begin.

His eyes fully adjusted, but even then they saw nothing. There was no light in the dungeon, only blackness, and his heavy breathing. Aevar swore he could feel the Canine Helix twisting inside him, pacing much like a wild beast as he waited.

Nothing happened. The door did not open, confessors armed with knives and pliers and blowtorches and screws and hammers and awls and ball-peen hammers did not enter.

So he waited.

He wished he could stop breathing, only so that he couldn’t hear his damned breath reverberate in the dungeon. He breathed heavily, he breathed lightly, he didn’t breathe at all, but he still heard the echoes of his last breath.

Aevar took a deep breath and held it. He counted in his head: one, two, three, four…thirty-two, thirty-three…fifty-nine, one minute, one, two…fifty-eight, fifty-nine, seven minutes, one, two…fifty-nine, fifteen minutes…

Aevar’s vision swam, and he gasped for breath. The sounds of his breathing were grating on his ears. He roared, trying to block out the sound of his breathing.

His throat dried and cracked, his stomachs growled in hunger, his arms screamed as they were pulled away from him, forced to carry his weight when his legs grew tired, and still no one came.

The door finally cracked open, and the Grey Knight entered, carrying a tray with a cup and pieces of bread and meat.

“How are you doing, brother?”

“What? Ugh, how long has it been?” Aevar demanded.

“Easy.” He took the cup and lifted it to Aevar’s lips. “Drink.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He gulped the liquid down. It cooled his throat, and tasted sweeter than any ale or mjod he had drank. The Grey Knight fed him pieces of dried meat and stale bread, each a savory feast. Aevar gnawed on the bread and meat, chewing them to savor the flavor, but swallowing as fast as he could to get the food inside of him.

“Thank you,” he gasped as he swallowed the last piece. The Grey Knight said nothing, but picked up the tray and carried it out of the room. “Wait! Is this the test? Am I infected?”

The door closed. Aevar growled in annoyance. Damned Grey Knights, damned psykers. They would never last a week on Fenris. So cocksure of themselves and their gifts, they didn’t know they made perfect daemon bait. They should fight as Russ intended; with feet on the ground and a blade in their hands, the smile of an axe in their hand instead of the twisting of fingers. Ever their own Rune Priests, even his friend Vermund Helfist, knew the value of swords and axes; flesh could be corrupted, but nothing could corrupt a blade. It could only shatter, and Aevar never made a blade that has shattered, even in the hands of the unskilled.

He slept, he woke, he slept. The pain in his arms became constant, as dull and as meaningless as the darkness around him.

He heard music, saw colors. Was this the Chaos manifesting itself, or was this his sanity leaving him? It never offered itself to him, so it couldn’t be Chaos, could it?

Aevar saw small, tiny battle brothers fighting traitors and cultists and daemons. They were so small, an entire Great Company could fit on a simple wooden table. They moved among plastic pieces of terrain, painted ruins and make-shift woods, fighting equally tiny and small enemies.

Even their voices were tiny; they squeaked like mice as they roared and shot and charged at each other. Aevar laughed. It was just so damned funny, like watching mice fight with human weapons, little painted, plastic men on a game board. The colors blended themselves, making shades of such he had never seen before.

He realized he was vomiting. Poison? He didn’t know. The smell soon became meaningless, and he went back to watching the mice-things squeak and kill each other with simple dice rolls, but even that left eventually.

How long would they make him wait? The darkness held no answers. Aevar realized that the sounds of his breath no longer angered him, a sign that he had been there too long. Or was he? Time held no meaning in the dungeon, he could only be there for a day. No, it had to be longer, he was starving and parched, it meant he was there for longer, didn’t it?

He slept, and time held even less meaning. With no way of finding how long he slept, it felt like he was in a stasis field, its own little eternity. He thought of weapon plans, but the plans left his mind as soon as they entered it. He needed parchment, or a proper logic computer, not the tiny one implanted in his head to store them, to refine them, or he just needed a hammer and a forge to make the damned things.

Aevar even took to singing to himself.

 

_There was a bear, a bear!_

_All black and brown, all covered in hair!_

_The bear! The bear!_

But soon even he soon grew tired of hearing his voice bounce off the walls.

“Aevar!” He jerked up, coming eye to eye with the Grey Knight. The door was open and light spilled in. When had he entered? “Why did you abandon your Emperor?”

“What?”

“You traitorous scum,” his battle brother hissed, contempt and hatred in his eyes. “You killed your own squad, cut their hearts out as an offering to the dark gods. Why have you forsaken your Emperor?”

_Confess, repent,_ voices whispered to his head. _Sinner, traitor, touched with Chaos._

“Why did you kill your battle brothers?” The Grey Knight demanded.

“I…what has happened? Where am I?”

“You will answer my questions!” The Grey Knight roared. “Why did you forsake your Emperor?”

_Sinner, traitor, blasphemer, sinner, traitor, blasphemer, sinner, traitor, blasphemer, sinner, traitor, blasphemer, sinner, traitor, blasphemer, sinner, traitor, blasphemer, sinner, traitor, blasphemer…._

“Get out of my head!” Aevar screamed. He pulled at the chains, trying to grip his skull. “Get those damn voices out!!”

The door slammed shut and he was left with the blackness. He gasped for breath, but the voices were gone. He spat, trying to get the foul taste of the Warp from his mouth, but his teeth seemed too large, his nose too sensitive. Was it the Curse of the Wulfen? Was he changing, his gene-seed degenerating until he was a mindless, hulking beast? In the blackness, he had no way of finding out. Things slowly became normal again, and he was left with nothing to do but sleep.

It felt like he had just closed his eyes when keys rattled in the door. He woke as the door creaked open, and footsteps thudded. He could smell multiple people, four in total, enter the room. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Standing in the room was the Grey Knight, with two of his battle brothers wearing their full battle plate, and Croan, a flamer in his hands, its pilot light burning bright. He stood stiff, his jaw set.

“Aevar Ironclaws,” the Grey Knight said, “You have been found guilty of conspiring with the evils of the Warp, for bringing Chaos and daemons into the Throne Room, in an attempt to kill the Emperor of Mankind.”

Tears spilled down his face.

“You will be put to death for your treachery. Are you ready to receive your punishment?”

“Yes,” Aevar cried. “Croan, you were right. You were right all along. Please, show me the true radiance you have promised, and forgive me. Forgive me, I know not what I’ve done.”

Croan stepped forward, and unlocked the chains on Aevar’s arms.

“What? What are you doing?”

“You are free,” the Grey Knight said. “Not the slightest hint of Chaos is upon you.”

“T-then this was a test?”

“The final test.” The chains were taken off, and he fell to the ground, his body screaming in agony. Apothecaries entered the room.

“You are on Holy Terra, in the very Palace of the Emperor,” the Grey Knight said. “By the Emperor’s holy will, no Chaos can enter here. So when a Space Wolf, whose loyalty and hatred of Warp are legendary, tells us that he might have the taint upon him, we made sure you were pure.

“’Specialists’ were summoned from Titan, Inquisitors examined you, and your mind was tested on a daily basis, just to see what we might find. Trust us when we say that there is no Chaos upon you.”

“How long was I here?”

“Three months.”

Aevar had so many questions, but his body had other plans. He passed out as soon as he was lifted onto a stretcher.

 

* * *

 

Croan and Legato followed the Sister of Battle into the resting chamber. She wasn’t a battle sister proper, but rather a hospitaller, a healer of great renown. She pushed a cart of bandages, bags of fluids and tools of surgery. They rattled on the stone floors of the hospital, louder than the footfalls of Croan. He no longer wore his Astrates battle plate, opting for simple cloth garments and the black carapace, his servo-arm at his side. Just ahead of them Aevar lay on a simple bed, a Custode standing guard at its foot.

“How are you today?” The sister hospitaller asked, a surgical mask covering her mouth.

“I’m much better,” Aevar said, sitting up in his bed. He wore no clothing under the sheets, not even a black carapace. Scars adorned his chest, and shining, silver nodes rose up from his flesh, ready to be connected to his power armor.

“Please, sit down,” the sister said, putting a hand on his chest. She had no hope of forcing the Space Marine down, but showed no hesitation in her actions. Legato could see her muscles working as she actually pushed against Aevar. She did not place her hand upon his chest as a token measure; she meant every action.

Aevar looked down at her arm, shocked to see her take action against him, then glared at her. The sister held her ground. She adjusted her footing and pushed harder, not making Aevar budge in the least.

“It’s good to see my sisters were raised to be strong,” Aevar grinned. He respectfully laid back down.

“How can I heal your flesh if you insist on re-opening your wounds?” The sister asked, pulling her cart up to his bedside.

“It is a fair point, brother,” Croan said.

“Bah, I know how to mend my own flesh,” Aevar said, voice full of swagger and bravado. “Did you bring the moss I asked for?”

“This is not Fenris, and no, I have not,” the sister replied tartly. She lifted his arms up to re-bandage his wrists. Aevar let her.

“I know full well what I’m doing,” he insisted.

“I would not anger the sister if I were you,” Croan chuckled. “She might make your recovery all the more painful.”

Aevar laughed with him.

“You know the machine spirit, not the flesh,” Legato said. “Let the sister do what she will.”

“I know about the flesh,” Aevar said.

“You?” Legato asked. “You know how to mend flesh?”

“Aye, that I do.”

“How about that, there was another genetor with us the whole time,” Legato laughed. “No wonder we got along so well.”

“How did you learn to mend flesh?” Croan asked.

“I was forced to replace Ljot Soothsayer, our priest…damn, what's the codex name for them? Healers?”

“Apothecaries.”

“Yes, the apothecary. I was forced to replace him on a hunt of ours.”

“And who gave you the authority to replace a trained healer?” The sister hospitaller demanded as she bandaged his rapidly healing wrists.

“Heretics, my sweet sister,” Aevar smiled. “There was a chaos cult we were hunting. They were a small group, and some of our fallen brothers were among the cultists. Who knows what they were up to, but we fought them. Ljot Soothsayer was our priest, err, apothecary. And he was hit hard.”

“How hard was he hit?”

“I encased him in dreadnought armor.”

“That was a hell of a hit,” Croan muttered.

“It was. A good fight, but a bad hit. We all but crushed the cultists, but the heretics ran away in a small strike cruiser they hid in orbit. We had no choice but to chase them as they ran through the void. We thought it would be a small skirmish, but they gathered with a much larger force, larger than hours.”

“They turned the tables on you?” Legato asked.

“Aye, it was a well-played maneuver,” Aevar said. “I can’t lie, it was quite a plan.”

“Are all Space Marines so thickheaded?” The sister hospitaller asked. She moved on to reading his body's pulses and hormone levels on a hand held scanner.

Legato flinched, bracing himself for Aevar's retort.

“I like you, sister,” Aevar laughed, slapping his thigh with a freehand. “If we had your wisdom, we would’ve saved ourselves a great year’s worth of trouble erasing them from the face of the galaxy!”

“Just stating facts, 'brother,'” the sister frostily replied.

“It took you a standard year to kill them all?” Croan asked.

“It was a good hunt,” Aevar grinned. “We went from being the hunter to the pray then back to the hunter. We attacked them from the shadows, killing the rearmost guard, distracting them and attacking their unprotected flanks, and occasionally breaking through their ranks to kill their commander. But the damn shame of it is that we’re not invincible; we took injuries.”

“And you taught yourself how to treat the injured?” The sister asked.

“Hardly. Old Soothsayer helped.”

“Your apothecary? But he was in dreadnought armor, was he not?” she asked.

“Yes. Death…changes a person. Aye, Ljot fought like a thing possessed, but when asked how to staunch the flow of blood or mend flesh, his mind was elsewhere. And, as the one who encased him in the armor, it was up to me to keep his focus, to be his hands and fingers as he told me what to do.”

“Sounds like a hard task,” Legato said.

“It was. It was very much a challenge, one that I never really took a shining to. But it had to be done, and I was a quick learner. I learned how to sew flesh, take the Chapter's dues, even deliver the Allfather’s Peace to those unfortunate enough.”

“You're pretty handy for a mindless barbarian,” the sister said.

“A mindless barbarian that is trying to make your job easier.”

“Thank you, but I'm still not letting you press moss into your wounds. That would make my job of cleaning the infection out even harder.”

“Well played, sister,” he laughed.

“It is good to see that your ordeal has not taken away your mouth,” Croan said.

“I wish it was that simple,” Aevar said. “I’m still in the chamber when I close my eyes.”

“I know what you mean. Such a thing is never to be forgotten,” Legato said. He blinked, seeing the Emperor’s gene-seed float in front of his eyes, utterly perfect. “You searched for forbidden knowledge, and burned yourself. You should be thankful that you are still alive.”

Aevar's facade crumbled. His eyes seemed to sink into his head, his face paled, and even his hair seemed to shrink, as if he was a wolf who was surrendering his dominance, or the bravado was suddenly pulled from him. It was not lost on Croan, the sister hospitaller, even Legato.

Aevar took a deep breath before speaking.

“You probably speak the truth, brother,” he said. “If it’s a lesson, it’s a hard one to learn, but most likely necessary. Just one thing bothers me: why am I still alive? I walked to a Custode and told him I may have brought the taint of chaos into Holy Terra, almost to the Allfather himself. Why didn’t they strike me down on the spot?”

“I do not know, brother,” Croan said. “But you should count your blessings that you are still among the living, and not infected with the taint of the ruinous powers.”

“And I am, but it’s something that I wish to know,” Aevar said.

“The little wolf burned himself on the fire, and now he wants to do it again,” Croan chuckled humorlessly.

“Call it what you will, but it’s been bothering me.”

“I'll summon the Gray Knight who interrogated you,” Legato said.

“Thank you, brother,” Aevar said, bowing his head.

“All done,” the sister hospitaller said. “I would appreciate it if you didn't decide to have yourself tested for another three months.”

“That I can’t guarantee.” Just like that, Aevar was back to his laughing, boasting self. He did a wonderful job of putting his painless mask back on. Legato envied him.

 

* * *

 

Boots fell on the stone ground, echoing throughout the hospital. Aevar's skin prickled even before he heard the noise; the scent on the stale breeze of Terra told him a Custode and a Gray Knight were coming, and with them, Legato and Croan. Aevar was surprised; he wasn't expecting his two fellow brothers to return so soon.

“You ask a lot by summoning us here,” the Gray Knight said, walking forward with his helm held under his arm.

“I merely with to know the truth, brother,” Aevar said.

“The truth will not set you free, it will merely lead you astray. You must do a better job of guarding yourself.”

“I know how to guard myself,” Aevar spat. Legato shied away as he raised his voice. “Tell me, why didn’t you kill me when I went to the Custodes? Why examine me? Why study me? Why?”

The Gray Knight balked, then chuckled.

“To tell the truth, I was expecting a much more heretical question,” he said. “It is not every day when someone asks you why you spared his life.

“When pulling out weeds, you do not simply tear the stalk out; if the root remains, the stalk will simply re-grow. Instead, you must follow the stalk, locate the roots, and pull them all out in one fell swoop.

“If someone has corrupted you with the taint of Chaos, we must find that person, for they will be corrupting others as well. Chaos does not simply rest with turning one person's back to the Emperor's light, it seeks to turn many at once. That is why you are alive.”

“And why did you spare my life at the end of your investigation?” Aevar demanded. “Shouldn’t my life be forfeit for wasting the Inquisition's time?”

“You are alive because you are needed to work on the Golden Throne. And according to our investigation, you are one of the most talented tech marines in service. You are still alive simply because you are still useful.”

Aevar released his pent up breath. He seemed to relax, knowing this.

“Tell the full truth,” a Custode said. “He deserves to hear it.”

“What full truth?” Aevar asked.

“Yes, what full truth?” Croan said.

“He does not need to hear it,” the Gray Knight said sharply. “We cannot risk him taking more fool-hearty risks.”

“He deserves to know it,” the Custode said. He glared at the Gray Knight, who relented.

“During our investigation, as we tore at your mind,” he started, “there was a golden light in the warp, a shard of the Emperor's own brilliance, shining down on you, protecting you as he would protect a psyker from the risk of daemonic possession.”

“The Allfather…was protecting me?” Aevar asked.

“As he would a regular psyker,” the Gray Knight said quickly. “More so than he would protect a Space Marine, but you are not special, simply treated as if you were at risk of surrendering your life to a daemon.”

“And what about this strange glow you mentioned?” He asked.

“It _is_ strange, but it is a blessing; nothing more, nothing less. It might even be a mark of greatness, protecting you from the foul enemies that are abound.”

“And from us,” the Custode said. The Gray Knight glared at him, but he ignored the stare. “Your life was almost forfeit many a times, but the Emperor's light seemed to shine brighter at those times when we were to kill you. What the honorable Knight means to say is that it is not your ordained time to die.”

“As far as we can tell,” the Gray Knight hastily added.

“Is that so?” Aevar chuckled. “You seem hesitant to admit it, brother.”

“You cannot take any fool hearty risks,” the Gray Knight snapped. “The Emperor protects, but He cannot protect you from your ignorant self, and you are needed to fix the Throne.”

“That’s true,” Aevar said, baring his neck before the enraged Knight. “Tell me, do you have the Allfather’s Tarot on you?”

“You do not want any knuckle bones to cast instead?” The Gray Knight spat.

“If the Allfather is protecting me, then why not ask Him ourselves?” Aevar said. “If I’m truly special, He will answer me. If I’m not, well, that is how the bones are thrown, right?”

The Gray Knight stood ramrod straight.

“The Emperor is not to be tested,” he said.

“Cast them for him,” the Custode said in a not-so gentle voice.

The Gray Knight broke from his spot on the ground and pulled up a small table. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a deck of psychic-reactive cards and handed them to Aevar.

It was a deck of the Emperor’s Tarot. Each card was supposed to be tuned to the psychic might of the Emperor; should the Emperor look upon the one who drew the cards, he could tell their future.

That is, if the Emperor cared to read the future of the one who drew the cards. Aevar knew he shouldn’t test the Master of Mankind so, but if he was right, he was tasked with knowledge, and a burden. And he had to know if this is the path the Emperor wanted him to take. 

“Shuffle them,” the Knight said.  Aevar complied, and the Custode, Croan and Legato moved to surround the table. They made the sign of the Aquila on their chest, and Legato hastily joined them.

Aevar shuffled the deck of tarot cards and handed them back to the Gray Knight.

“How many cards will be drawn?” He asked.

“Are you unfamiliar with the Emperor's Tarot?”

“I've seen it drawn many ways. Three cards drawn, five cards drawn or even seven cards, and then some play it in the shape of a cross. And that's only the popular ones.”

The Gray Knight didn't say anything, but Aevar could see in his eyes that he understood. If the Gray Knight didn't want to admit his error to save face, he could accept that.

“We will draw however many are needed to select an answer,” the Knight finally replied.

“Thank you, brother.”

The Grey Knight drew the first card and flipped it face up on the table. The psychic ink shimmered as it took shape. It was the Almighty Allfather, sitting upon the Golden Throne, ever vigilant over his watch of humanity, ever watchful.

“This speaks for itself,” the Gray Knight said. Aevar growled his agreement. “It is the protector of the Imperium, the God of Humanity, and represents the hope for a brighter future.”

“A good card,” Legato muttered.

“Very much so.”

The next card was drawn, and the ink solidified. Aevar shifted. It was the Eye of Terror, the tear in reality that lead to the Warp, the place of daemons and the Ruinous Powers. The deep red and purple bled into the material universe.

“This is most interesting,” the Gray Knight said.

Aevar could feel his skin crawling at the very thought of the Warp. He growled unconsciously.

“We are not in battle, Space Wolf, cease your animal growling,” the Gray Knight said. “See the ships on the card? They are a sign of the card's orientation. They are supposed to be on the bottom, but here, they are on the top.

“Instead of meaning damnation and corruption, it means discovery; perhaps the location of lost STC on a forge world, or the discovery of artifacts from before the Heresy.”

A discovery. Like his discovery of the Imperial Truth. Aevar's eyes lit up. He could feel his secondary heart beat picking up.

The next card was drawn, and his hair stood on end. He couldn't help but growl and bear his teeth. The ink shifted and solidified, revealing a towering figure wearing ancient Terminator armor. In one hand, he held Holy Terra, which was crumbling to dust in his gauntleted hand. Blood ran from the cracks in the holy surface. Flames from the background obscured his face, but Aevar didn't need to see his face to know that it was Abaddon the Despoiler, champion of Chaos Undivided and the greatest of the arch-enemy.

“This...is the most holy of signs,” the Gray Knight said. Aevar looked at him as if he had surrendered his soul to the Dark Gods on the spot.

“What heresy do you speak?!”

“Cease your barking and calm yourself. Like the last card, it is inverted.”

Aevar made himself look at the card. Sure enough, the Despoiler stood on his head.

“It does not mean a Champion of Chaos, but a Champion of the Imperium, of humanity. A Champion shall rise and defeat the Dark Gods.”

“I never thought I would see such a card,” Croan rumbled.

“I doubt many have seen the card in its inverted position,” the Gray Knight said. “This is the shortest drawing of the Emperor's Tarot that I have ever seen. Hope, from a discovery, shall lead to a champion.”

“But a discovery where?” Legato said. “A re-discovered STC? A lost artifact?”

“We cannot know for certain, but we must have faith in the Emperor that he will illuminate our way.”

“I see.” Aevar chuckled, leaning back on the hospital's bed. “Thank you for the reading, brother. It’s been most...illuminating.”

“Has the Emperor spoken to you?” Legato asked.

“Yes, I believe he has.”

“And your doubt has been ailed?” Croan asked.

“Definitely. I know what I’ve got to do.”


	4. The Golden Throne

The mess hall echoed the talks of the tech priests and fellow tech marines. Legato sat across from Croan, waiting for Aevar to show up. Despite the Salamander’s friendship, it was hard to talk to him at times, as opposed to the loudly boisterous Aevar. He would never have guessed that he would miss the gruff Space Wolf.

Sure enough, Aevar returned, but the talk seemed to dim as he walked it. It returned, but the chatter no longer flowed; it trickled from the mouths of those eating, as if the various Space Marines and tech priests were guarding the very words that left their mouths.

“Has the food gotten that bad during my time in the Inquisition’s care?” Aevar asked, sitting next to Legato.

“The little wolf returns again,” Croan said. “Maybe this time, he will stay.”

“You can tell your Chapter Master that I followed you home,” Aevar laughed.

“I doubt we would keep you.”

“Then I guess I’ll be thrown back to Fenris eventually. I’m sure Legato would miss the company.”

“We’ll all miss your skills, that much is for certain,” the miniscule tech priest said.

“And not just my charming personality?”  Aevar laughed. “How much work have I missed?”

“Everything and nothing,” Croan said. “Our work was just as slow as it was with you, only we didn’t have your radiant curses and silky whisperings to get things moving.”

“We haven’t heard him curse yet, have we?” Legato said.

“That’s right, I haven’t cussed up a storm. Well, stay with me and you may just hear one slip through my lips.”

“So you will join us again?” Croan asked.

“I’ll work to restore the Golden Throne.”

“Excellent. We have not made much progress since you insisted that you burn yourself—“

“Actually, I’ll be looking for more answers.”

Legato and Croan stared at Aevar. The Space Wolf continued to eat as if nothing was amiss.

“You must be suffering from a rattled brain if you think you shall go back to the Emperor’s library,” Croan hissed.

“Maybe a rattled brain is what we need,” Aevar said. “A breath of fresh air in this stale place would be good for us all.”

“And when you burn yourself again?”

“Then save me the damn trouble and burn me on the spot. I’d rather not spend another three months in that fucking cell.”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Legato asked. “You accused yourself of bringing the ruinous powers into Holy Terra, all from that room. Why are you even thinking of trying to look there again?”

“The answers are in there,” Aevar said tightly. “I was burned in that hunt, yes, but pain is an excellent teacher. I’m wiser for it, and the answers won’t stay hidden from me.”

“The Custodes will never let you back in,” Croan said.

“Actually, I just talked to them. They’re loath to admit it, but if the Allfather can be saved, any step must be taken. That includes giving me access to the library.”

“Preposterous,” Croan spat.

“They weren’t happy about it,” Aevar admitted, chewing, “but they allowed it in the end. Desperate times, brother, call for desperate measures.”

“Legato, talk some sense into this madman. I am done with him.”

“He’s right,” Legato stammered. He didn’t know what was more unsettling: Croan’s hatred or Aevar’s disinterested. “You can’t take any more risks, they might not let you live.”

“Our lives are the Allfather’s currency. We must spend it well, brother,” Aevar said. “And I believe that the best way to spend mine is to make a difference hunting for the truth.”

Croan stood and walked away.

“He’ll report you,” Legato muttered.

“I imagine he would,” Aevar said. “Shame, really. He’s a good friend. Of course, I’d imagine that being associated with me would be bad for your future standings with the Adeptus Mechanicus and the big, bad Inquisition. You should leave with him, and report me as well.”

“But…”

“You’re a good man, Legato. A scared little rabbit and a fucking genetor to boot, aye, but no one’s perfect. It’ll be best for your future to leave me alone. Trust me, you don’t want to end up in a cell for three months.”

Legato stared at Aevar.

“You know what you are doing?”

“No, but I’ve got an idea,” the Space Wolf admitted. “I’ve gone on less. Now get out of here before they suspect you, too.”

Legato stood. “You’re not long for this world if you continue on this path.”

“I’ve faith in the Allfa—the Emperor and his plan for me,” Aevar said, stammering and quickly correcting himself.

The tech priest shook his head. Aevar would never learn, and it would be his death. Legato walked away, dispensing his tray of food with the servitors. He was about to leave the cafeteria when he ran into Croan.

“You know what we must do,” the Salamander said.

“Of course,” Legato said. No further words needed to be spoken; Aevar of the Space Wolves was to be reported on, and was to be watched.

 

* * *

 

Legato sat at the table, picking at his food. He should be eating; he was starving the entire day, but now that he was in the cafeteria and had food in front of him, he couldn’t help but pick at it. Maybe it was the lack of sleep getting to him; even the Space Marines seemed to be growing weary of the backbreaking level of work that was heaped upon them.

The chicken breast he was playing with slowly morphed into the Emperor’s holy, perfect helix. He blinked his eyes; he nearly nodded off and fell face-first into his food. The Space Marines he ate with either didn’t notice, or didn’t care; the talk at the table droned on. He was the only tech priest at the table; everyone else were tech marines, and they all paid him no mind.

Legato idly wondered what made his brother and sister tech priests seek their own company, or the Space Marines to seek his.

“Nothing seems to be working,” Croan said.

“Nonsense, if we can isolate the power junction and repair its spirit, we shall make astounding progress,” a Blood Angel said.

“We can hardly assume the function of the power junction. We need to repair the circuitry attached to it, else we risk overloading the blessed circuits should we fix the junction.”

Silence descended, drawing their attention to the front of the cafeteria. Legato blinked and he was shocked to see Aevar saunter over to an empty table. He carelessly tossed his tray of food down and begin eating. The table remained quiet as the tech marines glared at the Space Wolf.

“What is that… _heretek_ doing here?” One Tech Marine demanded.

“He cannot be a heretek, else he would be dead.”

“Call him what you will, he has turned his back on the Mechanicus, the Omnissiah, and the Emperor. He spends his days searching for hidden knowledge, consorting with daemons and dark forces.”

“Then why hasn’t he been executed?” Legato asked. “He walks by the Custodes every day.”

“It does not matter,” Croan said. “He is being watched, and soon will be caught. Then we’ll see the little wolf burn for a second time.”

Legato bit his tongue. It has been months since Aevar returned to…to whatever he was doing. Surely he must have found something useful, something that can fix whatever was broken, and _everything_ seemed broken.

Every day, Legato hoped that the Space Wolf would walk into the Throne room, look at their minuscule problems, curse his lungs out and fix the Throne. No one else would admit it, but they needed him. Emperor knew Legato was never going to fix the Throne himself.

“I am not going to wait for him to make a mistake.” Legato turned. It was another Tech Marine, one from the Ultramarines. “Have we forgotten our promise? Kill the heretic, burn the mutant, purge the unclean. We need to kill the heretek, not wait for him at his leisure. We would not hesitate if this was a battlefield, why are we hesitating here?”

“Careful, brother.” Legato never figured that Croan would jump to defend Aevar. “You mean to bring violence and death into the Emperor’s Palace.”

“What difference would it make?” The Ultramarine said. “We fight for the Emperor, we die for the Emperor, wherever we are needed. And we are needed here, to slay this heretek.”

Legato didn’t know what to say as the other five Tech Marines nodded and agreed.

“Are you with us?”

Croan slowly, stiffly, nodded.

“Then you get to burn another heretic, brother. You should be rejoicing,” the Ultramarine said. “We kill him at midnight. Meet in front of his chambers. Or are you sympathetic with a traitor?”

Croan bristled at that.

“I did not think so,” the Ultramarine said.

“Do you mean for us to beat him with our hands? The Custodes took our weapons,” the Salamander said.

“I saw where they took our weapons. I will work to retrieving them from storage. Be there; the Custodes will not give us much time to work.”

Everyone stood and left, all except Croan and Legato.

“Are you seriously going to try to kill him?” Legato asked.

“What else am I able to do?” Croan asked. Legato could hear the Salamander struggling with his options.

“You are—were his friend. You know that he doesn’t carry the taint of Chaos. You were there when they released him.”

“I know.”

“Please, you can’t go.”

“Quiet!” Croan hissed. Legato shut his mouth so fast his teeth rattled. The Salamander turned to glare at him. “Do you know what my options are?”

Legato shook his head.

“I can go with my ‘brothers’ and kill Aevar,” he said. “Or I do not go with my brothers, and they report me for abandoning my duties. At best, I will be killed; there has already been word of one brother bringing Chaos to the Emperor, a second would not be tolerated.

“At worst, I will be examined for Chaos. And as I am not touched by the Omnissiah as our favorite Space Wolf is, my life will be forfeit for wasting the Inquisition’s time. So what shall I do? Kill my brother, save my life and try to save the Emperor, or sacrifice myself for someone who may or may not be tainted with Chaos?”

“I—I didn’t know…”

“How could you?” Croan said. The intensity in his voice dropped, and he looked down his nose at him. “You are but mortal, not an Astarte. Things are not so complex for you.”

“Things are more complex for me than you know,” Legato snapped. He didn’t even know he said it, it just slipped out. “Why do you treat me like I have some kind of brain injury? I’ve done more work on the Throne than you. While you argue and moan with the other Tech Marines, I toil away to get a simple pathway lit up with the Machine Spirit’s blessed light, to get a helix transistor to begin working! I may not be as good as Aevar, but I’m no simpleton for you to look down upon!”

He was gasping for breath when he finished. No one ever talked back to a Space Marine. No one that Legato ever knew.

Croan stared back at him, shocked to hear him speak his mind after all this time, his eyes brimming wide. Legato’s stomach dropped out from under him. What would the Salamander do to him for yelling? He saw the muscles of Croan’s jaw tensing.

“My apologies, brother.”

“Your…apologies?” Legato said.

“Yes, my apologies,” Croan said. “Forgive me, but my habits had got the better of me all this time. When we are initiated into the Chapter, we take vows. They are long and complex but we must live by them. And the vow ‘Protect the Weak’ is one of the first ones we swear.”

He shook his head.

“At our home world, Nocturne, we work with mortals, but even then we are helping them; building tools for them, repairing damaged equipment, protecting them from undo hardships. We take the burden from their shoulders, treat them as we would children. And in war, we usually drop into a warzone and secure them, protecting families from the ravages of war.”

“You do?”

“Someone has to. While others charge into battle, we set up defensive lines, we secure shuttles for the civilians. We protect the weak, and that means keeping them from battle. In war, every time I worked with a mortal, I was saving them, protecting them. On Nocturne, I would take their issues, fix what needed to be fixed and mend it.

“In either case, I was not truly working _with_ them; I was doing the work _for_ them. I did not even know I was doing it, it was a habit. Can you find it to forgive me of my thick-headed ways?”

Space Marines were hard to read, but Legato knew sincerity when he heard it.

“I do.”

“Thank you,” Croan said, bowing his head minutely. “It might take time to overcome this habit, but I will treat you like an equal, a true brother.”

“T-Thank you.”

“Please, excuse me,” Croan said, standing.

“You still plan on killing him? But you can’t.”

“I have to. Please, understand.”

Legato doubted that Croan understood himself.

 

* * *

 

The hallways were quiet and dark; night time in the Emperor's Palace. But the sense of reverence was lost on Croan, not only from his time spent living among the halls but from the task he was being dragged to. The Ultramarine was true to his word, and he was able to secure their armaments, although they were not able to retrieve their armor.

Croan, along with five other brother Tech Marines, were carrying bolt guns, while he small but powerful hand flamer. He had his black broadsword, his Dragonsword namesake, strapped across his back, but the reassuring weight meant nothing to him.

Never before had Croan faced such a strangely morally questionable situation. On one hand, Aevar was working on something other than the restoration of the Golden Throne; it was quite possible that he truly fell to the Ruinous Powers and was plotting against the Emperor, possibly by creating a new portal to the Warp.

If it were anywhere else but Holy Terra, that would be the end of it; Aevar would not live to see the morning break. But they _were_ on Holy Terra, a place where daemons could never enter by the Emperor’s holy will alone. And even if they could, Aevar had passed a grueling test, carried out by the Inquisition. And when it came to rooting out corruption, they were not known for being careless, nor lax.

If that was not enough, Aevar was perhaps the only one capable of fixing the Throne. At the very least, he was more suited for the task than anyone else, including Croan himself. Pragmatism was neither a common thought nor feeling in the Imperium, but this was by no means a common situation. The Emperor must never be allowed to die; failing would spell the very end of humanity.

The last and most perverse thought that was filling Croan's head was one of the Salamander's basic creeds, the very one that caused him to treat Legato with kid gloves: Protect the Weak. It was strange to think of a brother Astarte as being weak, but Croan was taking part in an execution squad. They were going to kill a most-likely innocent, un-armed man; that would classify Aevar as weak, and in need of his protection.

But was he really innocent? If he was, why did he spur the other brother priests? Why did he work by himself? Why would he not tell anyone what he was planning? Croan's brand on his chest itched, the very brand that read Protect the Weak. Should he speak up? Anything less than direct action will result in him being complacent in Aevar's murder, the murder of an innocent. And that was something a Salamander must never be guilty of.

But what if he _wasn't_ innocent?

“Here,” the leading Ultramarine said. They had arrived at Aevar's quarters. A large wooden door, just like all the other doors, stood in front of them. With their gene-enhanced eyesight, it was easy to see through the darkness.

“Are we sure?” Croan asked. He felt the gazes of his five brothers on him.

“Do you wish to desert your duty?” Croan didn't respond. “Are you like the heretek, the warpsmith, longing for the embrace of the Ruinous Powers?”

“No.”

“Then fall in line, brother.”

They were all whispering, but the last word sounded like it was spat. Croan whispered a prayer to Vulkan to watch over him as he took his spot by the door.

“We shut off the door lock's machine-spirit, then we breech,” the Ultramarine said. One of his several servo-arm activated, tapping into the small locking mechanism, and easily turned it off. He pushed the door, and it loudly rattled against a lock.

Everyone froze. Even to unmodified human hearing, it was loud. They all waited for Aevar to respond, but there was no sound from the other side of the door.

“What was the matter?” A brother Black Templar demanded.

“The door is still locked.”

Croan breathed a sigh of relief. If they lost the element of surprise, they should retreat; their actions might draw the attention of a Custode, one of the several dozen that were patrolling the halls, if not more of them. And if they took too long, the Custodes would come down the hallway on their patrol.

“Try again.”

It was a short-lived relief. The Ultramarine spoke to the tiny machine spirit, then tried the door again. Like the first time, it rattled, and remained locked.

“What now?” Croan asked.

“We go loud.”

“Hold!”

But the Ultramarine was already moving. He kicked the door in and charged. Croan was pushed aside as his other brothers charged in. He was last into the room, entering the small foyer.

All the rooms were the same: a small foyer, a short hallway, and a sparse room. They were built to be cozy to humans, making them cramped to the super-human, super-sized Astartes. They had to walk on a slight angle to keep their shoulders from scrapping the walls. 

He scanned the scene in a heartbeat, combat reflexes making everything second nature. The first thing he saw was a simple wooden block, lying in pieces, by the door. The door wasn't locked; it was barred from the inside. Because it lacked a machine-spirit, it was protected from their tinkering.

He knew a trap when he saw one. Aevar was expecting them.

Not a fraction of a second later, the Ultramarine charged down the tiny hallway and fell backwards, blocking their charge, clawing at his throat. It was hard to spot, but a slight bobbing movement, dripped in blood, revealed a thin steel wire, strung up at neck level. Even though they were armed, something told him they were in over their heads.

The next Battle Brother, the Black Templar, stepped over the Ultramarine. He used his bolter to break the wire. No sooner had he brought his bolter down than Aevar jumped from the shadows, brandishing a sheet. A sheet! Of all things, he had a simple piece of rough-spun cloth!

In the narrow confines of the small room, the Black Templar could neither move forward or backwards, nor could he bring his bolter up to bear. He tried to attack Aevar with his servo-arms, but they were slow, and clattered against the tight confines of the wall.

Aevar wrapped the Templar’s head in the sheet, blinding him, and spun him so he was facing the rest of the Astartes. Fortunately, the Black Templar knew better than to blindly shoot.

Wasting no time, Aevar pushed the Templar forward. Blinded by the sheet, he tripped over the fallen Ultramarine, then toppled into the third marine, a Blood Angel, who reflexively jumped backwards, crashing into the fourth, another Ultramarine, who bumped into Croan.

Bodies crashed, limbs tangled, and everyone fell to the floor of the tiny, human-sized foyer. Croan pushed and struggled, getting clear of the tangle and spilling out into the hallway when he heard the heavy footfalls he was dreading.

“What madness is this?” A Custode bellowed. “Stop, in the name of the Emperor!”

 Croan threw his flamer to the ground. Four Custodes were standing above them, spears aimed at him, barely an inch from his skin. Aevar jumped over the tangle of limbs and immediately knelt, as if he was pledging fealty.

“What is the meaning of this?” A Custode demanded.

“They fell down some stairs,” Aevar said.

“’They fell down some stairs?’” The Custode sputtered.

“Aye, they did.”

“On a flat floor?”

“It’s a _very_ tricky first step.”

“Heretic!” The Ultramarine bellowed, launching himself from the floor. In the blink of an eye, the Custodes were on him, beating his bolter from his grip and throwing him to the floor. It happened so fast even Croan missed the action. The black-armored bodyguards simply materialized above the Ultramarine.

“Stand down.”

“He is a heretic! He communes with daemons and the Dark Gods!”

“Quiet yourself, Astartes. There has been no summoning of daemons here.”

“He must be delirious from the fall,” Aevar said dryly.

“Quiet, Space Wolf. Your tongue is not needed here.”

Aevar tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck.

“What were you doing here?” The lead Custode said, moving to question Croan and the Tech Marines.

“We are here to kill a heretic,” the Black Templar said.

“Is that why you are all here?”

“Yes,” the Templar said, his eyes burning. “It is our sacred duty.”

“Do you refer to the Space Wolf? He is no heretic.”

“He is!”

“Silence,” the Custode said. “Gather them up. We are reporting this to the High Lords. They will neither be pleased to be woken at such an hour, nor will they be pleased to hear that a Space Wolf has been raising a ruckus.”

The Astartes stood, shooting looks of death at Aevar as they were led away by Custodes. The Space Wolf ignored them.

“I…Am sorry, brother,” Croan stammered.

“I’m not blaming you.”

“What?”

“If I were in your boots, I’d want to kill me, too,” Aevar said. “Must not look very good, claiming to bring Chaos into the Allfa—Emperor’s Palace, then being allowed to walk free.”

“It does not.”

“So don’t blame yourself for doing what any of us would’ve done. We can only strive to be our best, and our best includes killing heretics.”

“You seem very cavalier about this. Tell me, how did you know we were coming?” Croan asked.

“I didn’t,” Aevar said. “I’ve been barring my door and sleeping with one eye open since I was released from the Inquisition’s loving care.”

A Custode stepped over to Aevar.

“To the High Lords with you,” he said. “And pray they feel the slightest amount of mercy.”

“Ha! I doubt it!” Aevar laughed. He turned to Croan. “Take care of yourself, brother.”

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

The Eternity Gate’s landing bay was crowded with pilgrims, workers and servitors, the air filled with the burnt promethium of the ships, incense of pilgrims and sacred oil as tech priests worked. The crowd parted as a group of Custodes walked forward, surrounding Aevar. For once, he was dressed in his full battle plate, and seemed to revel in the feeling of being fully armored for once. Legato wondered how he could be so calm. Aevar’s eyes widened as he saw the diminutive tech priest.

“This is a surprise,” Aevar chuckled. “They let you away from the Throne to give your farewells to a rabble-rouser?”

“It was the only request I made since arriving here,” Legato said. “They must’ve been feeling especially helpful.”

“I’m sure they’re just glad that I finally found a way to get kicked out,” Aevar said. “The High Lords don’t like my Chapter; I’m fucking amazed they let me in here at all. They must’ve been looking for the slightest excuse to kick my ass out since I got here.”

“How you’re still alive is beyond me.”

“Ha! It’s beyond me as well, I can promise you that,” Aevar laughed. “I should’ve died over a dozen times now, but here I stand, and I’m not going to question my good fortunes on a simple question as ‘why.’ The…Emperor wants me alive, and I am. That’s good enough for me.”

“You didn’t have to do this to yourself,” Legato said. “You could have just worked with us, like you have before.”

“The Allfa—Emperor has shown me his plans,” Aevar said. “I can only obey.”

Why was he correcting himself?

“And what are you going to do when no one else believes you?”

“Pray for the strength of character to do it anyways,” Aevar said.

“You’re too…” Words failed Legato. “You’ll get yourself in trouble if you continue on this path.”

“The path of the righteous is never easy,” Aevar said. “If it was, we would not be in this predicament that we are in, would we?”

“What predicament?”

“This,” Aevar said, gesturing to everything around him. “Beset on all sides from foul xenos, the Dark Gods and traitors.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe there is some truth in. I wouldn’t worry yourself over it too much,” Aevar said.

A drop ship landed before them. Legato clutched at his robes as the thrusters turned up air.

“Transportation back to Fenris has been arranged for you,” A Custode said. “You will be traveling with rogue traders.”

“Hope they make good company,” the Space Wolf grinned.

Legato stammered.

“Croan told me to say—“

“Tell him it’s okay,” Aevar said, cutting him off. “He’ll blame himself. Try not to let him go adding another brand to his skin, will you?”

“I’ll try my best,” Legato said. “But you Space Marines are strong.”

“On you go.” The doors to the ship fell down, and a Custode pushed Aevar roughly. Another returned a Space Marine sized paring knife, his thunder hammer and bolt pistol to him. Aevar cradled them like a lost love. “Count your blessings that you left with your life.”

“I’ll do that every day,” Aevar said. “The Emperor has a use of me, and I’ll do his bidding.”

Aevar grinned at Legato as he stepped onto the shuttle.

“May you live forever in shame,” the Custode said.

“As you say, brother.”

The Custode glared at Aevar as the doors to the ship closed, and the massive machine took to the air once again. Legato doubted he would ever forget the sight of Aevar grinning in the face of an enraged Custode. While it paled next to the sight of the Emperor’s utterly perfect gene-seed, it was yet another vision that would never, ever leave his mind.

The Custode turned to Legato.

“We have humored your request; your work calls to you.”

“Of course. Take me back.”


	5. Cannonball Run

Agostina hated this part. Realspace was rend and torn asunder as her ship’s engines opened a hole to the warp, and pulled them in. The cluttered space lanes of Holy Terra shrunk behind them as the gape in reality swallowed them; her skin prickled as they left the clutches of space, and she averted her eyes from the terrible warp ghosts that seemed to press against the sides of her ship’s view port, before metal shutters closed the sight off for her.

If she concentrated enough, she could see faces, then hear voices, and she would finally go mad as they pulled at her soul. She turned from the view port at the helm of the ship, trailing her shoulder-length wavy black hair; she had spent so much time in the warp, it might as well be her second home. The life or a Rogue Trader was rough. But it was her life, hers she made by herself.

She picked up a small vox caster that hung at her hip, and opened a channel to her Navigator, Niklas.

“I assume the Geller Field is holding?” She asked.

_If it were not, you would most certainly know it,_ Niklas said from his room. It was built to be a Geller Cage, more powerful than the simple Field that projected around the ship. It protected the susceptible mutant from the worst of the warp. Agostina wished her entire ship was protected like the Navigator’s room, but it would be far too expensive to carry such a project out.

Agostina sighed. “And how is our route to Fenris?”

_The warp is calm, at least for the foreseeable future. We should arrive in one standard month, give or take three days. Can I assume that our…_ cargo _would be dropped off with the greatest haste?_

Agostina couldn’t blame Niklas for being hesitant. Seeing the disgraced Space Marine made her skin crawl. But she was glad it was just a Space Marine she was forced to carry, and only one to boot; when the emissary to the High Lords of Terra boarded her vessel, she feared that they might have finally demand to examine her Warrant of Trade and give it a real, good, hard look.

“I knew you don’t like Space Marines,” she said, “but you can put up with him.”

_Easy for you to say; you’re not a mutant._

Agostina left Niklas to mutter and curse; the man believed that everything was out to get him. Not that she blamed him; he _was_ a mutant after all. His existence was only tolerated because of his ability to traverse the warp. Of course, that only meant that no one would kill him; it didn’t mean that people would _like_ him.

She walked out from the bridge, and down the main corridor of her ship. As much as she hated warp travel, she loved her ship. _Johnathan_ was average for a Rogue Trader, meaning it was absolutely tiny compared to any real ship; it was smaller than an escort, barely one kilometer long. But it was _her_ ship, and she loved knowing that she owned it, and no one else.

No overbearing father, no whip-tongued mother, no demeaning brothers, no vile sisters, just hers and hers alone. She never grew tired of thinking of it as her ship.

No, not her ship, but her ‘family’s’ ship. She was a Rogue Trader now, not the daughter of a baseborn nobody. She was the descendant of a long line of Traders, the latest of a dying, royal lineage. At least, that’s what she had to tell everyone. Baseborn was never supposed to become Rogue Traders; Traders were supposed to be nobility. To be a Trader, she had to be as well. So the charade had to continue, and hopefully no one would examine her Warrant of Trade too closely.

But her own ship…She needed to celebrate that again, to toast to her health and wealth as a captain, maybe with one of her crew, too. She had gotten her hands on some new help, and one of them had seemed particularly capable, strong, and cute. She needed to get to know him. What was his name? Saradas, that’s right. She needed to get to know Saradas better. For team building. Was it so wrong to have a private drink with the captain? All she had to do was—

That almost had her. That errant thought that turned into burning desire which lead to dark places. Throne, did she hate it! Warp travel made everything harder, the slightest emotion being blown into something more, it made her so angry! Dammit, did she hate warp travel! She just wanted to curse it and beat it and tear it open and spill—

Agostina took a deep breath, held it, and let it go. There it was again. Those errant feelings and emotions that spiraled out of control. The best course of action would be to focus on nothing and pray to the Emperor for the best.

“Captain?”

Agostina was pulled back to reality. Vini, her second-in-command, was running up to her.

“There’s a fight in the mess hall.”

“Already? Who started it?” Then Agostina groaned. “Oh, never mind, no one would remember, anyways. Let’s break it up before it leads to blood.”

There was nothing like the first warp fight of a voyage. Throne, did she hate warp travel.

 

* * *

 

Seven night awake. She didn’t count all the night she spent tossing and turning, sleeping ten minutes at a time, only to be awake for the next twenty. Or was it seven days that she spent lying in her bed, restless? Warp travel always skewed things, the sense of time being the first and foremost. Eventually she’d just give up on it and give in to the omnipresent exhaustion.

Agostina pounded on the doors to some of her crew’s bunks, trying to stay awake. She didn’t have to try very hard, because whenever she tried to sleep, she’d just stand there, eyes peeled and drying, staring dead ahead as sleep eluded her.

“Open up,” she ordered. “You’re missing meal time.”

She sighed, waiting.

“Come on, we all need to get out of our rooms, eat, and make sure nothing has happened to each other, you know the rules.”

The door slid open, and Agostina was treated to an eyeful of Saradas, her new crewman. He was completely naked, his member standing at rigid attention. Behind him were three of her more veteran crew, all as naked as he was, and about to engage in Emperor knows what.

“Captain?” He smiled, looking her over. “Won’t you join us? We—“

Agostina stopped him before he could start. She cracked him across the mouth, her fist opening up his lips. He spun and fell, and the others gasped and stared.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She yelled. Her crew stared at her, then blinked, as if coming out of a trance. Suddenly realizing what was going to happen, they covered themselves. “Don’t you remember the first rule of warp travel?”

“Never scratch an itch,” they stammered, burning beet red as they tried to find their clothes.

“Damned right it is,” she spat. Saradas groaned, pulling himself up. “It leads to dark places! Now teach the new kid how to avoid this, and get your asses to the mess hall!”

“Yes, ma’am,” they muttered.

She stormed off, burning with hate. She waited until she was around a corner to make herself calm down. In the warp, hate was toxic. Lust was toxic. Curiosity was toxic. Damn it all, _everything_ was toxic! She hated warp travel.

She breathed in, then out, and felt better, calmer. Good, that was good. As bad as warp travel was, it was unbelievably better than the place that she had the rotten luck of being born in. Here, she made her own fate, rather than deal with the shitty hand that was dealt to her.

“Great way to show the new guy how to travel,” she muttered, heading to the mess hall. Her crew was milling around, eating sparsely. She grabbed a tray and sat at the head table.

“You find them?” Vini asked. As the second-in-command, he sat next to her, ready to turn her orders into reality.

“I found too much of them,” she said, sitting down.

“Oh, Emperor, they didn’t do anything bad, did they?”

“They almost did, but I put a stop to that. New guy was with them, too.”

“Seriously?” Vini asked, his interest piqued.

“Careful,” Agostina said.

Vini seemed to grapple with himself, but he won out over his more base desires.

“Sorry captain, things are more tense than normal,” he said. “The warp must not be very calm.”

“It does seem more intense, but Niklas says it’s _very_ calm,” she said. “We’re making great time, but these…instances keep popping up. First the fights, then the gluttony, now we’re moving on to lust.”

“Wait, so when you said you ‘found too much of them,’ you mean…?”

“Yep. Naked as they were born.”

“No wonder they’re blushing so hard,” Vini said, looking over her shoulder. Agostina turned around; the four were walking into the hall. All were blushing, but Saradas looked like he was ready to die of embarrassment. All their clothes were wrinkled and barely put on. “Can you ask Niklas to scan the warp again?”

“I did this morning, and he says we’ll be taking a week off our time. The warp is calm.”

“But with these instances, it can’t be calm!”

“What has Gordon said? Has the Geller Field remained strong?”

There was a crack from the kitchen, and an unearthly scream froze Agostina in her seat. Human screams rose, then were cut down with frightening speed. Five massive things leapt onto the counter, bellowing rage. Agostina fell backwards, drawing her bolt pistol. They had red skin, backwards bending knees, elongated heads, terrible tongues and swords. Swords that were on fire. She remembered what the old, disgraced Inquisitor told her, the one who taught her how to pass as a noblewoman.

_No matter what you do, never let the Geller Field fail,_ she had said. _Then you’d face the monsters of the warp._

Emperor protect them, they were actual daemons.

“To arms!” She screamed, shooting at them. “Daemons have made it to the ship!”

How could this happen? Did the Geller Field fail? She knew everything was working on her ship. She saw to the machine spirit’s maintenance almost as much as Gordon, her hired tech priest. How could this be happening? Throne, did she hate the warp!

Despite her terror and the battle, she dimly remembered that she wasn’t supposed to say ‘daemon.’ How she remembered what the old Inquisitor told her was beyond her.

A horrible noise came from the kitchen, snapping her back to reality, and Agostina saw more daemons crawling from a tear in the very fabric of reality. But they were struggling against the tear, trying to pull themselves from it, instead of simply walking out of it. And there seemed to be an even larger daemon trying to make its way into their little slice of realspace.

Its bloodstained bronze armor filled the tear in reality, and it screamed its rage, but to no avail. The tear closed, cutting three daemons in half. But the five that made it through, they were advancing quickly.

All around her, her crew were grabbing lasguns from weapon alcoves. Some were heaving tables at the daemons to stall their advance. She shot, hitting a few, but barely wounding any. The bolts that connected exploded before they even touched their skin, or were sent flying away by some invisible force.

“Hold them here!” She yelled. A few of her crew had drawn their weapons, and were shooting, just as the daemons charged. A daemon jumped on top of Saradas, the new crewman, and he screamed, shooting wildly. A bright lance of light, and a daemon fell, a hole dead in its eye. It fell like it was a dropped sack of potatoes, and Saradas fell against the wall himself.

Two of her men were gutted, one had her head lopped clean off. One daemon ran straight towards her.

“You!” It hissed. “You are mine! Your skull shall be added to the throne!”

Agostina yelled, then the creature was bowled over by a dark figure. They collided on the deck, and the figure brought it’s gauntlet down, pulverizing the head of the daemon with a thunderous crack. It took a second for Agostina to realize it was their cargo, the disgraced Space Marine, and he was armed with a massive, golden hammer. Two long, thick metal arms hung from his backpack, tense, but unused.

The three remaining daemons hissed at the new challenge, and charged. The Space Marine’s thick, matted hair whipped around as he saw the new challengers, and he pulled the dead daemon’s body up as a shield.

Its brethren sliced and cut into the body, and the Space Marine brought the hammer across. Thunder filled the air, and two of the daemons were swept away, bent and broken.

The last daemon charged, screaming incoherently. The Space Marine matched its yell, and charged forwards, hammer held tight across his chest. The daemon lashed out with incredible speed, and the Space Marine could only parry with the shaft of the hammer. The daemon cursed and fought, driving the Emperor’s Chosen backwards towards the wall. Seeing its prey against the ropes, the daemon laughed and lunged.

The Space Marine side-stepped, and the daemon drove its cursed blade deep into the wall, lodging it in place. The Space Marine cracked its skull backwards with the shaft of the hammer. The daemon stumbled back, disarmed, only to be pulverized.

The Space Marine looked up, eyes scanning for more of the enemies, but found only the stares of Agostina’s crew.

“That the last of ‘em?” He rumbled in deep, calm High Gothic.

“Y-yes, my lord, I think so,” she said, ears ringing.

“We need to check,” he said. “Where there’s one daemon, there tend to be more. Can you move? I don’t know this ship as well as you.”

“You heard the Space Marine,” Agostina said, stammering despite herself. She was the captain, supposedly the descendant of a long line of noble traders. She had to lead by example, prove that she wasn’t just some slum rat from a Hive World. “Form up. We need to search the ship, bow to stern! Vini, get on the vox, all hands are to arm up.”

“Yes, captain!”

The Space  Marine walked over to Saradas, and helped him up.

“Nice moves, boy, taking out that daemon,” he said. By the Emperor, he was laughing, like it was all a sport. “We’ll make a killer of you yet!”

Saradas was pale and shaking, and the rough pats on the back the Space Marine gave him nearly sent him flying. Somehow, he stayed upright. Agostina noticed a dark spot growing on his pants. Given his intimate encounter, she couldn’t blame him.

“What’s your name?” The Space Marine asked, all grins.

“S-Saradas, my lord,” he stammered.

“Saradas!” The Space Marine roared. “A good name! Captain, you have a slayer in your hands! Saradas the Slayer!”

“I—I am no slayer, my lord,” he mumbled.

“Nonsense! This is your kill!” The Space Marine moved to the dead daemon, totems, runes and pelts rattling on his armor. There was a knife on his belt; to mortals like Agostina, it was as big as a machete. But in the hands of the Space Marine, it seemed like a paring knife.

With the knife in hand, he deftly cut the head off the daemon, then gave it to Saradas.

“Mount it on your wall, for it’s your glory!”

Saradas fainted the second the Space Marine walked away. Agostina stood straighter as he came her way.

“It’s strange that the daemons chose to appear in the kitchen,” he said, suddenly serious. “Isn’t there a larger area they could teleport into?”

“There is, my lord,” she said. “I’d think they would try for the cargo hold. It’s pretty full, but it’s still a larger space than the mess hall.”

“Where’s the cargo hold?”

“It’s on the other side of the bulkhead, actually,” she said, pointing to the back wall of the kitchen.

“Then gather your men and tell me where to turn, I’ll take the lead,” he said, pulling a bolt pistol from a shoulder holster.

“Come on, get together, we’re going daemon hunting.” Agostina tried to sound enthusiastic, but it was a lame attempt. Her men didn’t seem to notice; they fell in, brandishing their lasguns.

She directed the Space Marine down the halls of her ship, his heavy footfalls and tinkling trinkets making the only sound. Soon, they were at the doors of the cargo hold.

“I don’t hear anything on the other side,” the Space Marine said, pressing his ear against the metal door. “Still, best be cautious. I’ll open the door and charge in, you and your men will hold back and shoot at anything that’s not me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Agostina said. “Get ready.”

Her men took kneeling positions and aimed at the door. The Marine pulled at the panels in the wall, releasing the pneumatic lock that kept the doors shut. Air hissed as they waited for the pressure to drop.

“Ready?”

They nodded.

_“Fenrys hjolda!”_ He bellowed, throwing the sliding doors wide open. He charged in, bolt pistol in his off-hand, hammer held tight in his right, just under the head of the weapon.

But the cargo bay was empty, with nothing other than her cargo in it. Agostina swept her bolt pistol left and right, but saw nothing. The Space Marine snarled and turned, but the only things he saw were the items she was trading.

Boxes of Mechanicus-sanctioned ammunition, foodstuffs, raw adamantium and a few pristinely kept crates of cigars and alcohol were the only things there. All were just as she had left them when they left Holy Terra.

“Well,” the Space Marine said, “this is a letdown.”

“Kind of anti-climactic,” Agostina said, secretly glad there were no abominations aboard her ship. But she had a reputation to uphold, and she made herself sound disappointed.

“Indeed,” he said, sliding his bolt pistol into the well-worn leather holster at his shoulder. He sniffed at the air. “But it smells like they tried to enter here.”

“Smells?”

“Aye, smells. Daemons have a stink about them,” the Marine said, walking down the rows of goods.

Agostina walked with the Marine. None seemed disturbed, which was good; she didn’t need the loss of any precious goods to set her back. They rounded one row, and came upon severed limbs that were certainly not human.

“Well, well, well,” the Marine rumbled, “what have we here?”

There had to be nearly a dozen amputated body parts, all red skinned and smooth. Legs, heads, bodies, and arms still clutching weapons lay on the ground, bleeding irregular blood. Some of the weapons were broken, cut in two or more.

“What in the Emperor’s name are they?” Agostina said.

“Daemons of Khorne, from the looks of it,” the Marine said. He walked over, kicking the limbs over. “This is like a chaos incursion. They tried to enter here in a great number. See that? Limbs of bloodletters, maybe a forearm of a flesh hound…ah! What do we have here?”

Agostina looked up. The Marine was toying with a large piece of sliced bronze armor with the plumb of his hammer.

“And that is…?”

“The armor of a juggernaut, by the looks of it,” he said. “Khorne really wanted us dead.”

“Captain?” Vini said. “W-what in the Throne’s name is that?”

Agostina followed Vini’s gaze. He was moving what looked like a giant snake with the end of his lasgun. Spikes adorned the thing, and it occasionally twitched in death.

“Russ’ blood,” the Marine cursed. “I’ve seen that before.”

“What is it?”

“That’s the lash of a bloodthirster, a greater daemon of Khorne.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“First-hand knowledge,” he replied, kicking the lash with his boot. All of his cheer was gone, replaced with steely determination. “The First War of Armageddon.”

“I beg your pardon, but there was a war at Armageddon?”

“…Right, I forgot that the fucking Inquisition wished that away,” he growled. “Also forgot they don’t like anyone saying ‘daemon’ or using proper names for ‘unholy’ shit, but fuck ‘em, they’re not here.

“All you gotta know is I fought a fuck of a lotta traitors and daemons a long time ago. Shit, that was five hundred years ago, and it’s _still_ too soon to see such a damned thing again.”

Agostina stared at the Marine. He did looked old, with tanned skin that looked more like cured leather, long teeth, and of course his long matted hair and beard were more salt than pepper, but a war that was over five-hundred standard years ago? He had to be ancient. How old did Space Marines get?

“Did you fight one of those…things?” she asked.

“Aye, fought it with my pack,” the Marine said. “I saw it tear through three _other_ packs before we were able to stop it. Gave me a few lovely scars to boot. Russ, that thing was a pain to kill.”

“W-what did we do to get monsters like this to attack us?” Vini said.

“We’re human, and we’re in the warp,” the Marine said. He sniffed the air, but seemed to dismiss the notion that there was something else in the hold. “If you want reason, you’ll find none.”

“So you don’t think it’s strange that a greater daemon wanted to kill us?” Vini asked.

“Daemons have their own ways of thinking, all of which are heretical,” the Marine said, leaning on his hammer. He gazed deep into it, as if it held the answers to everything. “Don’t damn your soul by trying to understand them, just kill the fuckers every chance you get.”

“But we’re just Rogue Traders! We don’t warrant the attention of--!”

The Marine’s hand went to his holster, and not even bothering to even draw it, he pulled the trigger four times. The hold echoed with the loud shots.

“Ha!”

He loped off to the end of the hold. Agostina held her bolt pistol in a death grip, expecting to see more of the monstrosities.

“W-what did you see, my lord?” She asked.

“This.”

At the end of the hold, hiding among the crates, was the monster that nearly cost Agostina her sanity. It was pink, had a mouth as large as its belly, and didn’t seem to have any head at all, just that…that terrible mouth! And the arms, it had arms coming out at all angles, by the Emperor, how did that Space Marine manage to touch it? He was holding it aloft by one of its many terrible arms, two bolter rounds nearly cutting its body in two. Her men panicked, one threw up, and Agostina nearly joined him.

“W-wha…what the…?”

“A daemon of Tzeentch,” he spat. “Bloody coward. Hiding in the boxes.”

“How did you…?”

“I saw his reflection in Katla.” He lovingly shook his thunder hammer high. Totems rattled. “Nothing more than a trick shot. Granted, I’ve used it more in drinking contests than in actual fights, but I killed the damned thing regardless.”

“Drinking contests?”

“Aye. Makes for a great way to earn a free drink. You should learn it.”

Agostina shook her head.

“But what is it doing here?” Vini asked.

“Damned if I know,” the Marine said. “Tzeentch doesn’t work with Khorne, at least not outside of a Black Crusade. Maybe it was the reason they tried to enter in the kitchen? Tzeentch does have dominion over all things warp related.” He brutally spat, as if displeased that he said the word ‘warp.’ His spit hissed, eating a small grove into her deck. “It doesn’t matter. We’re safe, and we don’t have to worry about some bloodletter butchering us all.”

“Could you kill it?” Vini asked.

“What?”

“Could you kill that...that bigger monster? The one with the whip?” He repeated. “You are the Emperor’s Chosen, the mightiest of his warriors, an Angel of Death. Surely you could have killed it.”

“Aye, I could’ve,” the Marine said. “If I had a Land Raider and a team of Jarl Guards wearing Terminator armor and armed with storm shields and thunder hammers. Failing that, access to a battle barge’s orbital weaponry.”

“So you couldn’t have,” Agostina groaned.

“Maybe I could, if Russ himself came back to tattoo ‘luck’ on my ass,” he said, rubbing his roughly trimmed beard thoughtfully.

“Captain?” One of her men asked. “A-are we safe?”

“Well…”

“Nowhere is safe,” the Marine answered. “The best we can do is prepare ourselves for the inevitable, and pray…err, hope for the best.”

Agostina didn’t like the sound of that, but they were in the warp. They needed to get back into realspace as soon as possible.

“We’d best burn the lot of these, or toss ‘em into the void,” the Marine said, shaking the dead horror.

“I’ve got an airlock just in mind for it.”

“Lovely.”

“I should talk to Gordon, our tech priest, see how the Geller Field is holding.”

“I’ll join you. If your tech priest would let me touch his things, that is. My mechanicus brothers tend to be territorial about their belongings.”

 

* * *

 

“What have you done?!”

Gordon wasted no time laying into Agostina as she entered the tech priest’s layer. It was a glorified maintenance tunnel that ran the length of her ship, but the tech priest was always one to say that this was his domain. He lived up to his claim, burning incense and lying spare parts down on tables with reverence, placed upon velvet pillows and surrounded by sacred oil. He yelled at them through a vox-voice, having replaced his original voice long ago.

“What have you done to anger the machine spirits so?!” He demanded, storming up to her. He was a big, but wire thin man, far more machine than human. But then again, what cog priests wasn’t? His red eye-lens pierced her, undoubtedly scanning her in several spectrums.

“We didn’t do anything,” Agostina pleaded.

“Liar! The Geller Field’s machine spirit almost failed! We were almost exposed to the warp! You dare treat your family’s ship with such disrespect?”

“Calm yourself, brother,” the Space Marine said. He waited at the bulkhead that marked the entrance to Gordon’s layer. Gordon stared, amazed at seeing a fellow priest. “There’s been…discontent in the warp. It’s not her fault. Stay your wrath for a truly worthy foe.”

“’A truly worthy foe?’” Gordon repeated, as if not understanding the Space Marine.

“Aye, there’ll be worse to come, I’m sure of it,” he said. “May I enter your dwellings?”

“I would be honored to share them with a fellow priest of Mars,” Gordan said. “My name is Gordon. What, may I ask, is yours?”

“I’m Aevar Ironclaws of the Vlka Fenryka,” the Space Marine bowed.

Agostina realized that she never asked for the Space Marine’s name. She would also have to ask him what ‘Vlka Fenryka’ meant.

“I can assume that you have gotten your name from your servo-arms, am I correct?”

“Aye, that’s so.”

Aevar’s servo-arms activated for the first time, spinning to his side with multiple joints. Each had what seemed to be digits on the end, but they rather housed various tools the tech priests employed, instead of true claws.

“Impressive,” Gordon said, his own four servo-arms twisting. “Are you the special cargo that we were hired to carry?”

“Indeed, brother.”

“I was not told you were of the Mechanicus.”

“The High Lords of Terra don’t think very highly of me, and they didn’t think it was necessary to tell you,” he said. “Doesn’t matter, this is neither the time nor the place to bitch about the High Lords. Are things sound down here, brother?”

“Hardly,” Gordon replied. “The Geller Field has been running ragged the day we entered the warp.”

“I thought our travel was progressing well,” Agostina said.

“It may be, but the shields have been strained,” Gordon said. “Their poor machine spirits are starting to scream. They seemed to have failed not thirty-seven minutes and eighteen seconds ago.”

“That’s because they did,” Aevar said.

“What? But…but that can’t be! The Omnissiah would never allow one of its creation to fail on its own accord!”

“It didn’t fail, brother. Something just forced its way inside.”

“But that would imply…”

“That there’s a great force out there that wants us dead,” Aevar said. “Do you have any logs from the Geller Field?”

“I do. I must consult them, see what the machine spirit is trying to say.”

Gordon shuffled away to a panel of rune-monitors. Aevar leaned over him, and Agostina pushed her way to the screen. This was her ship, dammit. She deserved to know what was going on.

Graphs and tables appeared on the screen. Agostina stared blankly at them while Aevar rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

“I can see what you mean,” he said. “The power consumption is all jumped up.”

“It worries me that the spirit may not be able to continue to function at such a high output.”

“Wait, are you saying the Geller Field will shut down?” Agostina gasped.

“It very well might, but not now,” Aevar said. “With your permission, brother, I’d like to make some modifications to it; add a cooling pipe and a more direct line to the ship’s plasma reactors so we can overcharge it.”

“While it is operational?” Gordon gasped.

“Would you rather we turn it off?”

“Certainly not.”

“Excellent. Now, you got any servitor eyes in the cargo hold?”

“Of course. Agostina wants to keep an eye on her payloads at all times, she insisted I add them.”

“You think you can catch them phasing in?” Agostina asked.

“I hope to,” Aevar said. “Maybe we can see if any more daemons escaped.”

Gordon brought the footage up. The cargo hold was empty, then brilliant light flooded the hold. Aevar began growling, sending shivers up Agostina’s spine. The light turned into what seemed to be a sphere, then suddenly jumped to the right, appearing in the bulkhead.

“That was them getting trapped in the material world,” Gordon said. “We were lucky.”

“Too damn lucky,” Aevar said. “It’s a simple mishap. But I don’t see that wretched pink horror.”

“There was another monstrosity that breached the field?”

“Aye. Maybe it entered another way. Are there any more readings?”

“No, nothing of note.”

“Could be that the massive breach hid the pink horror’s entrance…” Aevar said, talking to himself. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll start reinforcing the Geller Field this moment.”

“Shouldn’t we drop from the warp to fix it?” Agostina asked. “You make it sound like working on it while active is a death trap.”

“’A death trap?’ Please. It’s just very, very dangerous,” Aevar said. “In terms of dropping out of the warp, I think we should stay the course. The quicker we get to Fenris, the quicker we’ll be done with this shit.”

“I appreciate your help, Lord Ironclaws, but I am captain of this ship, and I say we drop from warp,” she said.

The Space Marine, Aevar, looked her over. Agostina hoped her nerves would hold.

“That’s true,” he said. “Do what you think is in the best interest of the ship; after all, I’m only a passenger here by your good graces and the High Lords.”

“T-thank you.”

“Just be glad that you’re a Rogue Trader and not a member of the Imperial Guard,” he said. “They you’d be required to obey my commands.”

Agostina walked out of Gordon’s hold. Vini was waiting for her.

“Was that wise?” He asked. “He’s a Space Marine, and a veteran at that. Shouldn’t we listen to him?”

“As much as I want to, I’d like to get the taste of warp out of my mouth, at least for a little bit,” Agostina said. “Let’s talk to Niklas.”

They walked through the ship, passing her crew. News of the ‘monster’ attack was quick to spread, and all walked around carrying weapons. They curtly nodded to her, all nerves. Finally, they arrived at the navigator’s quarters.

“Niklas, talk to us,” she said, pounding on the doors. The view portal clicked on, and Niklas greeted her, bleeding from the nose, his eyes, even the mutant third one, and ears. “By the Emperor, are you okay?”

“T-there was a surge in the warp,” he muttered, trying to staunch the flow of blood with gauze pads. “I’ve never felt anything like it. It pushed the Geller Field aside like it was nothing.”

“It did. Fortunately, our mysterious cargo helped us defend ourselves from a…a ‘monster’ incursion.”

“By the Throne,” he muttered.

“Gordon says the Geller Field is running at maximum, and we need to repair it. Can you drop us out of the warp so we can make repairs?”

“I…I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“The warp is pulling us along at such a rate that if we were somehow able to drop out, I fear that we’ll lose months of time,” he said. “Even with this…this incursion, it has been calmer than I’ve _ever_ seen it.”

“I’d rather lose a few weeks than risk having the Geller Field collapse,” she barked. “Even if it is a few months!”

“But I can’t find a suitable exit spot,” he protested. “The warp is so smooth, I can’t find a good spot to drop out of. We’ll have to squeeze every available drop of power from the ship to even _attempt_ to make an opening.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we’re caught up in such a warp current that we’re nearly lost,” he said. “There’s only one clear point where we can exit from, and that’s our destination, Fenris.”

Agostina couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“We’re lost in the warp?” Vini gasped.

“No, but we’re nearly there,” Niklas said. “I told you, the warp is calm; we’re hitting no points of turbulence. We’re free to move as fast as we can. We even have a warp current pulling us along; there are eddies surrounding us that are more powerful than I even knew were possible.”

“And this ship doesn’t have enough power to break free of this current,” Agostina said.

“Precisely. If this was a navy ship, we’d stand a better chance.”

“But we’re traders,” Vini muttered. “Rogue Traders in a dingy of a ship.”

“You watch your mouth! This is my ship, my _family’s_ ship,” Agostina barked. But she knew that Vini was right; _Johnathan_ was a tiny ship.

“If there is something out there that is moving us along, we’d best go along with it,” Niklas said. “Otherwise, we’d have to break the ship apart to even attempt to get free.”

Agostina ground her teeth. She didn’t like being stuck in a situation, powerless. It reminded her of home, of her family, of her Hive City, of everything that raised her. It reminded her why she escaped it all, invented a new family to became a Trader.

But as much as she hated being powerless, she hated the thought of losing her ship more. Emperor, did she hate warp travel.

“Vini, go tell Lord Ironclaws that we can’t drop out of the warp,” she said tightly. “I’ll gather the crew, tell them that we’re going to try and squeeze more power from the engines. The quicker we get to Fenris, the quicker we can leave this hellhole.”


	6. Cannonball Run

After working on the Golden Throne for nearly two standard years, it was refreshing to work on something that was, by comparison, impossibly simple. Aevar hummed happily to himself as he worked on a plasma junction coupling. He’d started working on it nearly a day ago, and was making such good time, he just couldn’t stop. He though he was doing quite good, considering he’d made the junction from a reclaimed sewer pipe.

“Lord Ironclaws, here’s the rebar you requested.”

“Excellent work, Slayer. Set ‘em down over there.”

“M’lord, I’m no slayer,” Saradas mumbled.

“Nonsense, you brought down a daemon,” he said. One of his servo arms grabbed the new piece of rebar and moved it into place. He spot-welded it to place while he made the final twists and calibrations. A little more bracing, then he’d finish bending the pipe into place. “If you were a Fenrisian, we’d consider you a potential recruit! You should be proud of yourself!”

The man needed a real spine. Hopefully by the end of their trip, he would realize what an accomplishment it was, and he’d take some damned pride in it. Instead, the Slayer slunk away, fiddling with his lasgun as he helped his fellow traders carry supplies into the service tunnel.

“Gordon, what does your logic engine say about the stresses this will be under?” Aevar asked.

“We should be within a tolerable range,” the tech priest said, shuffling over.

“Excellent. Let’s get this linked up.”

With a grunt of effort, he pulled the sewer pipe into place, bending it at just the right angles to connect it to the rest of the cooling line and lining up the rebar bracing. His servo-arms welded the connections, and he let the metal flex into position.

“Are you sure that you want to build the containment fields by yourself?” Gordon asked. “I have experience with maintaining this ship, and can be of great service.”

“Thank you, brother, but I want you to keep the Geller Field on your mind,” Aevar said. “The forces of Chaos might try another breaching attempt, and I need you to draw power to the Fields at a moment’s notice.”

“B-but you’re building right next to the plasma generator. The heat could—“

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve been burned worse,” he said. Of course, it was a lie; he just needed to be free of Gordon’s prying eyes. He needed to “talk” the “machine spirits” into acting better.

“If you say so,” the tech priest sighed. Aevar knew he was getting his way only because of his rank and experience. But once he got the containment field running, he would have more sway with the tech priest.

With the pipes connected, he reached for the box of circuits, the building blocks of the logic engine that would drive the containment field. He had been building the schematic in his head for the past few hours, and worked out a simple mock-up on a piece of parchment; he was sure it would work.

He grabbed a proto-board from the pile, formerly used in a trash-compactor, and began adding chips to it, his servo-arms welding them to the board. He risked a glance over his shoulder to Gordon; the tech priest was busy whispering prays to his terminal as he studied the ship’s power draw.

Aevar turned his attention back to the logic-computer he was assembling. There would be no prayers for him; he was using his newfound knowledge of circuits to drive it. The Emperor’s library held many tomes of knowledge, and he had learned much.

_To think I would’ve called this heresy months ago, and not been  able to build it just a few weeks past,_ he thought. _The galaxy is truly an interesting place._

 Soon he was finished. A simple job, but the first true job he had done since he walked into the doors of the Emperor’s library. He fed electricity to the circuit, and it hummed to life, activating the magnetic coils in the makeshift cooling pipe.

“It’s ready,” he said.

“It is?” Gordon asked, his attention pulled from his terminal. “I did not hear you invoke the Pray of Activation.”

“You didn’t?” Aevar said, cocking his head to his side. “I must’ve been whispering it. Habit must’ve got the better of me.”

“Habit?”

“Soothing the machine spirit is much like hunting for prey,” he said. “You must follow the paths of electricity, and if it makes an error, you spring upon it. And when hunting, you must remain quiet.”

The tech priest gave him a hard look.

“It is a Fenrisian thing,” he said, shrugging. He reached out to the valve they installed, and pulled it. The new channel opened itself to the main plasma reactor, and the superheated fluid poured forth, running through the pipe and into the heat exchange at the bow of the ship. The containment field strong, allowing the plasma to move freely, without melting through the reclaimed pipe.

“See?”

“I stand corrected, brother. My apologies,” Gordon said, turning back to his workstation. “I’m reading the power output is within tolerable ranges.”

“Good. Give it more power.”

“W-what?”

“We’re expecting a chaos raiding party at any second,” Aevar said. “We have to stress test it before the forces of chaos can test it for us.”

“If you say so,” Gordon said, although he did not sound convinced.

“Don’t worry, I built it to withstand a lascannon,” Aevar laughed.

Gordon said nothing, but dutifully sent more plasma to the cooling pipe. The field held.

“We’re feeding it a total of twenty percent of the power,” Gordon said. “Our maximum allocation.”

“And the drive?”

“The power output is increasing with minimal heat increase.”

“Excellent! A resounding success!” Aevar slapped Gordon’s thin frame. He wished he had some mjod to celebrate. It had been too long since he had something to drink; far too long.

“If I have ever doubted you before, I do not now.” Despite the compliment, Aevar could hear it in Gordon’s voice that the tech priest _did_ doubt him. Either because he had missed the Prayer of Activation, or because of his appearances, Aevar cared not. His rank was secured, and Gordon would more willingly bow to his wishes.

“Now all we’ll need is to reinforce the Geller Field,” he said. “Make sure that its secured in place, then give it a more direct access to the plasma reactor.”

The words has scarcely left Aevar’s mouth when the generator began to fizzle, and Gordon’s terminal went haywire.

“The forces of chaos are trying to breach us again!” Gordon shouted, typing madly at his terminal to send more power to the Field.

“I can see that,” Aevar snapped. “Where’s the tear?” The foul stench of the warp was his answer. It assaulted his senses, pouring over him in waves. He spun around, to see a tear materializing just behind him. The point of light wavered, then shot towards a bulkhead.

“To arms!” He roared, disengaging the mag-locks that kept Katla strapped to his back. “Slayer, gather your men and prepare for combat!”

The human traders dropped whatever they were carrying, metal rods, pipes, or boxes of rivet bolts, and fumbled with their weapons as they tried to bring them to bear in time. But it was too late; the tear split and opened. With gasps of pleasure, a group of daemonettes dropped into the ship.

Clothed in what appeared to be tight, black leather straps, they were hauntingly beautiful, but at the same time broken parodies of the human form. Their faces were smooth and easy, but they had cruel, sharpened teeth. Their bodies were thin and lithe, but they sported terrible, jagged claws in the place of hands. Most had one breast, the other was cut off, and their hair fell pell-mell from their scalps.

Aevar’s skin rolled as he pulled Iounn from her holster. He unleashed a stream of bolts towards the daemonettes. They entered the ship precariously close to a bulkhead and cross bracing; a few had materialized inside the thick adamantium struts, dying instantly. Not that that deterred the others.

“Slayer, get back,” he said, gunning down two daemonettes as they surged forward.

“Ooooh, a pretty boy!” One laughed, running at the youth. Saradas screamed, still holding an armful of rebar. Aevar tried to shoot it, but his bolts were pushed aside by the daemon’s unholy warp charm.

Fortunately, the Slayer was better that he thought. He brought the rebar to bear just as the daemonette jumped towards him, skewering the fell beast clean through the heart. The daemonette died instantly, and with a grin.

Before he could cheer for the boy, a team of daemonettes raked their claws against his armor. But he made the plates thick and strong, and was able to fend off the attacks.

“That boy is pretty, but _you’re_ the one we want,” one cooed, lashing out with her claws. Aevar parried, stepping back from the assault.

“Yes, you would make a great addition to our numbers,” another said, weaving in front of the third.

“I’d rather cut my own head from my body,” Aevar said, swinging Katla. The daemonettes laughed and spun away, unnaturally fast.

“Don’t tempt us, you rough little thing,” a fourth sighed. “Slaanesh wants you alive and well, not dead and gone.”

The team of daemonettes lashed out in perfect tandem. The first went high, swiping at his face. The second went low, trying to pull his legs out. The third and fourth weaved to his sides, flanking him. Too bad they forgot about his servo-arms.

His servo-arms spun upwards, catching the flanking daemons by surprise. One was able to squawk before the claws grabbed them by the face. With a simple thought, the arms tightened and spun, breaking their skulls and necks. He threw the limp bodies at the two remaining daemons, who jumped back on reflex.

It was what he was waiting for. With Iounn already in his hand, he brought the bolt pistol up and snapped off three perfectly placed rounds. They hit one daemonette in the stomach, and the mass reactive rounds exploded, cutting it in half.

The last one dove and weaved around him. He swung Katla and his servo-arms, knowing he would hit nothing, but he would bid his time until the daemon slipped up.

The daemonette hissed, raking her claws across his pauldron, and he was able to land a telling punch across its face. Stunned, the daemonette tried to run away, but Katla put an end to it quickly.

“Die, daemon,” he grunted, stomping on the fallen daemon for good measure. “Slayer, are you hurt?”

Three more humans had died to the daemon’s assault, but the rest had put them down. The traders were shooting at the fallen monster, filling its dead body with lasgun fire. Even Captain Agostina was there, pumping bolt after bolt into the creature.

“Captain, I’m pretty sure it’s dead,” he said, walking over.

The woman was gasping, rage and fear in her eyes. She shakily lowered the gun and smoothed out her hair, doing her best to look nonchalant and failing.

“T-that _thing_ killed my men,” she mumbled.

“And we’ve avenged them,” he said, gently setting a hand on her shoulder. He looked up. Just behind Agostina, pinned under the dead body of a daemonette, was Saradas. “Slayer!” He walked over and hosted the dead body up. “You’ve brought down another foul monstrosity! Excellent work!” He pulled the stunned young man to his feet. “You’re starting quite the collection on this journey!”

Saradas tried to speak, but it all came out a stammer.

“First time seeing a daemon of Slaanesh?”

“Y-y-yes…”

“It’s his first trip through the warp,” Agostina said, walking up. “Saradas, are you alright?”

“Two daemons! You going for a full menagerie of the creatures?” Aevar asked.

“N-n-n-n--”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll grow used to the horrors the ruinous powers throw at us, I’m sure of it,” he rumbled. He pulled out his paring knife and gave it to Saradas. “Come, take the daemon’s head as your prize! Mount it to your wall!”

“Lord Ironclaws, my man is terrified of that thing!” Agostina protested.

“He has right to be. But fear is to be overcome. If we’re ruled by fear, we’ve already lost. Come, Slayer, you have conquered the daemon, now conquer your fear!”

Aevar slapped the man’s back, and he hesitantly went to work cutting the daemon’s head off. A few crewmen had choice words to say on the matter.

“By the Emperor…”

“Think I’m gonna be sick.”

“We’re making a warrior of you, yet,” Aevar laughed as he took his knife back. He heard the man faint as he walked away. Agostina wasn’t as amused, though.

“I don’t like you shoving my crew around like that,” she said.

“I’m just trying to get the man used to fighting,” he said. “The galaxy is a violent place; we must be ready at all times.”

“He’s my crewman, not your…potential recruit,” she spat.

Aevar gave the woman a hard look. She tried to hold her ground. But she was right; Saradas wasn’t a member of the Imperial Guard, or even a promising tribesman. Saradas was a trader, a civilian, to be protected. He was letting his old habits get the better of him.

“If that’s your wish, I’ll let it be,” he said. “I’m only on your ship by your good graces.”

“And the order of the High Lords of Terra,” she muttered, relief filling her voice.

“Brother Ironclaws, a word,” Gordon said from his terminal.

“Yes?”

“I believe there’s been another breach,” the tech priest said. Aevar instantly had Katla in his hand, and Iounn was sweeping the deck. “Further down the corridor.”

“Captain, can I ask you and your men to accompany me?” He asked.

“W-why?”

“If it is a bigger breach, I’ll need your guns.”

He didn’t add that their guns would more than likely be useless, but maybe one would get lucky.

Agostina nodded. “You hard the Space Marine. I need volunteers to kick whatever the hell is down there off my ship.”

Seven men hesitantly drifted to their captain.

“Good enough,” Aevar said. “Brother Gordon, do you know how much further down the tear was?”

“Approximately twenty standard meters,” he replied.

“And how is the Field now?”

“Holding strong.”

“Vini, go check on Niklas,” Agostina said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aevar cautiously advanced down the hallway, eyes keen. As they moved further down, he could smell the corruption. Cleaver of the daemons to appear further down; he could have easily mistaken their scent for the daemons he had just fought. Russ, the air on this ship didn’t cycle fast enough. He needed to be back on Fenris. Finally, they came upon the daemon.

“Hel’s teeth,” he swore. Behind him, men and women screamed and ran, their bravery faltering. Somehow, Agostina stood strong.

Before them was a monstrous Keeper of Secrets. It stood even taller than Aevar; it had to be close to twice his height. It had five arms, two of which held swords, while two had enormous claws. The fifth one was a scythe made of bones that jutted from its flesh. Its head was abhorrent, with tusks and bones breaking through its purplish skin at random places.

But their fortune had held strong; the Keeper of Secrets had appeared in the midst of several cross bracing structures, the very bones of the ship. Adamantium beams pierced its body, arms and legs, pinning it in place. Blood ran in thick rivers down the beams, but the thing was somehow still alive. The dozen of eyes that adorned what little space was left on its face all turned towards Aevar.

“Ah, the Blessed One arrives,” it said. Despite its hideous appearance, it spoke in tones of smooth velvet. Aevar felt his hair stand on end. He grasped Katla tighter.

“B-blessed?” Agostina stammered.

“I was wondering when you might find me,” the daemon said. There was not a hint of pain in its voice, despite being pierced by several beams. It licked at its own blood.

“Don’t listen to it,” Aevar warned.

“Yes, don’t,” the daemon said. “Don’t listen to me, and you damn the Imperium.”

“Enough of your lies, daemon,” Aevar said, walking forward. “Your life ends here.”

“Don’t you want to know how your journey ends?” It said.

Aevar jumped onto the bracing beams, climbing until he was at head height with the monstrous daemon. He roared and brought Katla across the daemon’s skull. The air cracked with the release of energy, but the daemon held to life.

“You help humanity, but tear the Imperium apart.”

Aevar smashed the daemon again, and its head lolled.

“If you love your Emperor, you would best kill him,” the daemon said to Agostina. “Of course, that would mean that the Emperor dies, in the end…”

Katla crushed the daemon’s skull for the third time. Finally, the daemon yelled in pain.

“He will usher in a new age!” It screamed. “A new age where humanity falls to a new lows!”

The fourth blow finally split the daemon’s skull and brought it down. Aevar hit it twice more, just to make sure.

“W-what did it mean?” Agostina said, holding her ears against Katla’s thunderous retort. “Why did it want us to kill you?”

“Don’t trust _anything_ a daemon says,” Aevar said, jumping to the deck. “They’re deceitful in nature. They exist to lead you to dark places and to fuck your soul. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she mumbled. “But I’ve never heard one talk before…”

“Don’t dwell on it. Everything about it exists to tempt. Purge your mind of its image and sound, else it’ll be your damnation.”

There was a skittering of claws, and Aevar had Iounn in his hands. Near the edge of a cross bracing beam was another pink horror, doing its best to hide. But it’s grotesque size and shape were its undoing; with too many arms, it couldn’t hide all of its bulk behind the adamantium brace.

Aevar roared and unleashed a hail of bolts at it, breaking into a dead sprint. The pink horror squealed and ran, its warp charm pushing bolts away as it fled. It was fast, maybe faster than him.

It darted towards a ventilation shaft, squeezing into the small opening. Aevar slid, his armor throwing up a tail of sparks. The vent was too small for his armored arms, so he used a servo-arm. One shot into the shaft, catching the daemon by a leg. It screamed and thrashed, but his servo-arm held strong.

“Get out of there and die,” he snarled.

The pink horror thrashed, grabbing onto whatever it could to get a handhold and tried to pry itself free. With so many arms, it had plenty of options.

Aevar adjusted his grip, sending his second servo-arm into the shaft. He felt around, grabbing one of the horror’s arms, and brutally crushed it with a simple thought. It howled, but held strong. So he felt around for another arm, breaking it as he did the first.

The daemon’s grip faltered, and he hauled it out into the open. It howled, and summoned a fireball with its two remaining hands. Aevar shielded his face, just as the horror threw the ball. The heat of the fireball singed his hair, but his armor easily bore the brunt of it.

“Enough of that, now,” he grunted, bringing his fist down. The daemon’s head shattered, and it went limp.

Agostina and her men slowly approached.

“Is it dead?” She asked.

“As dead as dead could be,” Aevar said, getting to his feet. “Damned thing slipped in again.”

“How can these things get in so easily?”

“Fuck if I know,” he said, spitting into a corner. “I don’t know how the Warp works. Helfist probably knows more than me.”

“’Helfist?’”

“He’s a Rune Priest, a brother and a friend back at Fenris,” Aevar said. “I only deal with iron. He deals with the wyrd.”

“…Will they keep breaking in?” Agostina asked. She did her best to keep her voice from cracking, but the stress and fear were evident.

Aevar looked at her and her men.

“Let’s head back, and throw this thing in an airlock” he said instead. “That’s twice the forces of chaos have assaulted us. If all the chaos gods wish to test us, that’ll leave two more trials to come.”

“What shall we do?”

Aevar thought. He was on a ship full of mortals, not even Guardsmen. They needed to be protected; but he was only one warrior.

“We need to keep everyone together,” he said. “Gather your crew in the cargo hold. That’s where we’ll live until we are out of the warp. No one should go wandering off alone; we must stay in groups.”

“What does that do?” She asked.

“It’ll help me keep an eye an all of them,” he said. “There might be another creature that has found its way onto the ship. We can’t have them making a lunch out of your men.”

“Too right,” she said.

“Captain!” Vini ran down the service tunnel. “Niklas is hurt bad.”

“How bad?”

“He’s bleeding and delirious.”

“I’ll help him,” Aevar said. “I have some experience in the healing arts. Do you have aid kits?”

“We do, milord.”

“Excellent, that’ll speed things up. Take me to him. Captain, if you will, gather your men in the cargo hold.”

“Of course. Throne, this damned trip can’t end fast enough.”

“Too right.” Agostina led him through the ship, towards the Navigator’s quarters. They passed the men and women of the traders, who shuffled out of their way. Chatter was at a minimum; Aevar could smell the fear on everyone.

“Niklas, we’re here,” Agostina said, opening the doors to the Navigator’s chambers. The doors that lead to the Navigator’s chambers was like an airlock; they entered a small chamber, closed the first door behind them, and let the air cycle before they opened the second.

_All this damn work to keep the fucking warp out,_ Aevar thought. _Wish we all had chambers like this._

Inside his room, Niklas was nearly passed out; two of her men were with him, holding him as he was splayed out on the ground.

“Closed,” he muttered.

“Yes, the portal is closed,” Aevar said, kneeling next to the thin man. “We’re all safe, for now at least.”

“But it closed,” he groaned, somehow holding onto consciousness. One of the crewmen had an aide kit. Aevar took it and pulled it open, taking some balm and began examining Niklas. He was bleeding from his nose, eyes and ears; typical warp-sickness for Navigators. Aevar applied a layer of the balm just under his nose; the balm began mending the broken blood vessels. “It closed.”

“Aye, I closed it, you’re fine now,” Aevar muttered. He had no time for the ramblings of a warp-sick man.

“No, you didn’t close it, someone else closed it,” Niklas said. This caught Aevar’s attention. “Something opened the Geller field, something big, something powerful. Looking at it was like feeling velvet; smooth and tempting and… and purple. It tore it open, and then something else closed it. Something even more powerful, something blue. It closed it.”

Aevar gave Niklas a hard look. He knew Astartes had a sobering effect on mortals, and he hoped his gaze would drive some sense into the Navigator, but Niklas looked passed him, gazing into space.

“Something opened it, and something else closed it,” the Navigator repeated. “What would it do that? Why would it do that?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” Aevar said. “It’s the Emperor looking out for us.”

“But it couldn’t be the Emperor, he doesn’t look like that,” Niklas said, his head lolling. “The Emperor glows. This thing was dull, it was blue, it was tasting a riddle. It glowed like you.”

“Lord Ironclaws, what is he saying?” Agostina asked.

“I haven’t the slightest,” he replied. “He must be warp-sick. Give him some water and time to sleep this off and he’ll be right as rain. ‘Till then, ignore him, and get ready for the next assault.”

 

* * *

 

Saradas sat on his makeshift cot, trying to find a way to sleep. He heard the life of a Rogue Trader wasn’t glamorous, but he ignored every word of warning. He wished he’d listen to his parents, his older brother, his priest, his friend’s parents, Throne, he should have listened to damn near everyone!

“Just join the Guard,” his brother had said. “Yes, you’ll be in danger, but _I_ made it out, and so will you. You just have to keep your head down, say your prayers, say ‘yes, sir,’ a lot, and you’ll be out in no time.”

Too bad he didn’t want to be a Guardsman. He wanted a life of adventure, something glamorous. And he wanted to be rich, too. Couldn’t do that on a small, rinky-dink protein farm on Terra, or as part of the Guard. No, a rogue trader was the way to go, or so he had thought.

And what had that gotten him? On his first trip, his first time off-planet, first time in the warp to boot, he was nearly a part of a heretical orgy, and had faced down vile daemons twice now, and if Lord Ironclaws was right, they were only halfway through it!

He gave a hesitant look to the two lumpy bags that sat at the foot of his cot. He didn’t want to hold onto daemon heads, but Lord Ironclaws seemed to insist on it. Yes, it was a great honor to see a fabled Space Marine, and more so to walk, talk and fight with one, but daemon heads? Emperor, why would someone hold onto the damned things?

He couldn’t give them away, of course; no one would dare take them. And there wasn’t any place for them to pitch them, either. Yes, they had a trash incinerator, but they had taken it offline to give more power to the Geller Field. So far the trash wasn’t overflowing, but they were only two weeks into their long trip. Plenty of time to be wallowing in their filth.

All around him in the cargo hold, the crew were talking. Of the last two attacks, of the suspected next two, who they had lost and who would be lost again. Saradas didn’t want to hear any of that. He just wanted to live through the trip and get home as fast as possible. The idea of being a protein farmer didn’t seem so bad now.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Saradas looked up. Agostina was standing in front of him.

“C-captain!” He said, jumping up.

“Oh, give it a rest, Saradas,” she groaned. “We’re not a military vessel, we’re just rogue traders.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve…just been really nervous.”

“Ha! You and everyone else on this tub!” She tossed her head back and laughed bitterly, tossing a few wavy length of hair. It caught his eye, and he tried not to stare. “You mind?”

“Go ahead.”

Agostina sat next to him. Two weeks ago, he would have killed to have the chance to get her sitting on his cot. He’d hardly seen a woman like her before. She was beautiful and noble, but also strong, independent and even humble, so unlike any noble that he had seen from a distance. It was like she was a regular baseborn woman in royal clothing.

“How are you holding up?” She asked.

“I’m tired,” he said. “It’s hard to sleep in the warp.”

“I know that feeling. Hate it myself.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, why are you a trader?”

“Just…no ‘ma’am’ stuff, okay? I think we’re past that point,” she sighed.

“Okay, if you say so. But, why are you a trader if you hate warp travel? I know your family were rogue traders, but why continue it? You’re nobility; you could live anywhere.”

“’Live anywhere,’” she laughed. “Maybe it’s some kind of wanderlust. But mostly because it’s the only way to make a real living. Otherwise, you’d end up in some dead-end job on your home world, or a member of the Guard, and we all know that’s mostly a one-way trip.”

“But you’re nobility,” he said. “You’d be a commander.”

“And I’d rather take my chances out here than in there.”

“My brother was a Guardsman, ma’am, I mean, Agostina. He’s held out pretty good.”

“Well, you’re brother seems to have a lot of luck.” She looked at the two bag-covered daemon heads. “That luck seems to run in the family.”

“If I was _really_ lucky, those daemons wouldn’t have attacked us in the first place.”

“Shit, isn’t that right.”

“Capt—Agostina, where are you even from?”

“Hmm?”

“You have an accent, so I know you’re not from my sector of space.”

“Throne, I haven’t talked about my home world in such a long time,” she said, as if she was trying to either recall a memory, or quash it.

“…Is that a good thing?”

“No, no it isn’t. I…I don’t remember much of it. Traders don’t stay in one place for too long,” she said. “I was mostly was raised in space.”

“What about your parents?”

“They were…they were good traders,” she said. Saradas wondered what made her hesitate. What were noble families even like? “They knew the routes, they knew the prices, they knew how to find a deal.”

“But were they good parents?”

Agostina gave him a hard look. She was off-put, he could tell.

“Throne, I’m sorry, sometimes I ask too many questions,” he said.

“Best watch that,” she replied. “My parents were my parents. They were many things, but they were right about one thing: it doesn’t matter what kind of shit is going down in the galaxy, could be wars and death and mayhem, but as long as you got your ship, the entire sky is yours, and ain’t no one can take that away from you.”

“And traveling through the warp?”

“A _very_ necessary evil. At least you get something out of it.”

“Do you think you’ll get rich, err, rich _er_ trading all the time?”

“Ha! That’s what everyone thinks traders are trying to do! Get rich, or die trying!” Agostina laughed again, properly this time. “Let me tell you something: if I ever strike it big, I’ll still be slinging it through space; it’ll just be on a much fancier ship. I love my ship, but my family is small fries compared to other traders. If we strike it big, I’d like to change that. Is that what you signed on for, Saradas? To get rich?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ve been poor my entire life. I’d rather die than be poor.”

“You know, most traders never get rich,” she said. “Well, richer than they already are. It’s always just an endless job. So take my advice: learn to love it. It’s always about the money, yes, but if you count every bean you’ve got, you miss quite a lot. Tough out the warp travel, see the galaxy and try to get as much out of it as you can.”

“I’ll try,” he said. Never get rich? But this is what he was betting his life on.

“How do you like being ‘the Slayer?’” She grinned.

“Throne, don’t call me that,” he said. “Why did I have to get stuck with the daemon heads?”

“Because you’re the one who killed them. Lord Ironclaws seemed pretty impressed with you.”

“He wants me to become a Space Marine, I think.”

“No, you’re not some rough Fenrisian man. They’d never accept you.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been to Fenris a few times. Never properly visited, though. It was just passing through. They’re a loud and boisterous people, but they’re as tough as rocks. They only respect killing there, so taking out a few daemons would get you some good respect. But they keep one eye open around outsiders. We haven’t been through the same shit as they have, and they’re suspicious because of it. But, get them drinking, and they’re plenty friendly.”        

“Thanks, captain,” he said sullenly.

“Don’t worry, he won’t try to recruit you. Just…keep your chin up and try to put up with him for a little while longer.”

“I just want to go home,” he mumbled. “Damn the warp, damn the money, I just want to get out of here.”

Agostina looked at him, a mixture of pity and sadness in her eyes.

“I know,” she finally said. “But it’s too late for that. We have to keep moving.”


	7. Cannonball Run

“Captain Agostina, a moment.”

Lord Ironclaws walked up to her makeshift command desk in the cargo hold. She sat among the luxury items; vacuum sealed Terran cigars and the finest liquor she could get her hands on from their short stay on Terra. If she could find a buyer for them, and if the trip didn’t kill them, she stood a chance of make a small fortune.

“Yes, Lord Ironclaws?”

“I made new weapons for your crew.”

He carried a crate full of what seemed to be haphazardly constructed weapons. He placed one on her desk, which was really the crate for the cigars. She wondered what they were, then her eyes drifted to the promethean tank by the barrel.

“What? No, that’s not a flamer, is it?”

“Aye, it is,” he rumbled. “Your men will need it.”

“There will be no fire on my ship!” She said, standing up. “ _My_ ship, Lord Ironclaws, which you yourself had said are on by my good graces!”

“There are two more chaos lords that will test us,” he replied, holding up armored fingers. “The lord of rot, and the changer of ways. You’ll need these against the lord of rot, mostly because your men can’t shoot, no offense.”

“There are no open flames allowed on any ship for good reason! We burn too much air!”

“It’s a good reason, aye, but when faced with the lord of rot and a horde of mindless, pus-oozing husks, these’ll help clean the air,” he said. “Trust me, captain, I’ve faced down plenty of rotting horrors, and a flamer is the best weapon to use on them.”

“What if we don’t fight this ‘lord of rot’ you talk of? What if it’s the other one?”

“It won’t be,” he said.  “I’ve been smelling them for nearly an hour.”

“What?”

“Ask Gordon and Niklas; the Geller Field is being tested again. So far, my modifications have held out and kept the Field up and running. But the lord of rot is a stubborn foe; it’s only a matter of time before he’s able to punch his way through. And I can smell the putrid smell of decay just begging to get in.”

Agostina fumbled with the small vox transmitter at her hip.

“Gordon, what is happening? Lord Ironclaws is saying that we’re being attacked.”

_He’s right,_ the tech priest said. In the background of the vox channel, she could hear his mechanical limbs typing away at a logic engine. _How they haven’t breached the Field already is a blessing from the Emperor and the Omnimissiah. But they’ll probably get in, and sooner rather than later._

Her blood ran cold at the thought.

“Do you know which vile monster it is?” She asked, putting on a strong face.

_I can’t. Lord Ironclaws says it is some ‘lord of decay,’ but I have no idea what it is or if he’s right._

“Thank you, Gordon. How is Niklas doing?”

_He’s in his quarters, in his Geller Cage. But the forces that are beating at our door are still making him delirious._

“Keep me informed.” She killed the vox channel and looked up at the Space Marine. “How can you tell it’s a ‘lord of decay?’”

“Trust me, captain, if you smell them once, you’ll know that smell anywhere,” he replied. Then he grinned and tapped his nose. “Besides, I have what you’d call ‘acute senses.’”

“Very well. Emperor grant us strength.” She turned to her men in the cargo hold. “Arm yourselves! Monsters are approaching us!”

“To arms!” Her men gathered themselves and readied their lasguns. Lord Ironclaws walked among them, giving out his makeshift flamers to a few.

“Slayer, take this,” he said, gently replacing Saradas’ lasgun. In its place, he gave him what seemed to be a modified lasgun that had a canister mounted near the barrel, instead of it being under the barrel. “You’ll want this flamer for this encounter.”

“L-lord Ironclaws! What is that?”

“A flamer,” he repeated. “A special one, too. Should pack more of a punch than the others.”

“Begging your pardon, that don’t look like any flamer I’ve ever seen.”

“Aye, that’s right. But time was short, and parts were scarce. Treat this like a regular flamer; point it at your foes and hold down the trigger. The canister will empty itself and it will roast your enemies. Once you have run out of flames, pop the canister off and use it like a regular lasgun, or slip another canister into it. They’re by the barricades, and have a red piece of tape on ‘em.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Slayer. We still have foes to kill.” He turned to the gathering men. “Form a perimeter! We hold the enemy here.”

Her men formed an uneasy half-circle, facing the doors to the cargo hold. Lord Ironclaws hefted the heavier crates of adamantium ore to form basic barricades, grunting with the effort of moving the massive things. Once he was done, he walked back towards Agostina.

“Are you ready?” He asked, drawing his bolt pistol and thunder hammer.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said. Agostina checked the magazine to her bolt pistol and slid a round into the chamber. Then, bracing herself against a crate, she waited.

The minutes slid by and her men started growing restless. Some set their lasguns down.

“Stay focused,” she yelled. But her bolt pistol was getting heavy in her hand as well. She turned to Ironclaws. “Have they boarded at another part of the ship?”

“No, Gordon hasn’t told us they have breached the Field,” he rumbled. “When they do, he’ll tell us where. And fuck, when they do, you’ll know it.”

An unfamiliar smell tingled the back of her nose. Agostina sniffed the air, trying to figure out what it was. Her men smelled it, too, and began asking what it could be.

“Won’t be long now,” Ironclaws growled. A wisp appeared near the door of the cargo hold, then suddenly flickered off past the bulkhead.

_They’ve breached!_ Gordon voxed. She grabbed the vox channel and activated it.

“Where?”

_Just aft of the cargo hold! It looks like they appeared in the midst of the ship’s bracing._

“Another mishap,” Ironclaws rumbled. “I don’t like how our luck is holding so steady. I don’t fucking like it.”

“What do you mean?” Agostina asked.

“Well, if it’s going this good, it usually means that it’ll go the _other_ way soon enough.”

Her stomach dropped, then violently heaved. The wisp turned into a hole in realspace, and daemons slithered and oozed out. The stench suddenly rolled over them in waves. It was so heavy, it felt like getting punched. Agostina hadn’t smelled anything even remotely as terrible as the stench the daemons perspired. Death would smell better than them.

The closest she could place it was when she was a child, and had accidentally stumbled into the slaughter house of her sector. She had opened a door and found herself in the waste room, where the useless parts of the meat were thrown before being incinerated.

All the bits of skin, bone, shit and rotten meat had made her sick for days, but even _that_ memory didn’t do justice to the foul things that were suddenly inhabiting her ship.

“Plaguebearers,” Lord Ironclaws hissed. Around her, her crew were gagging. Many threw up, abandoning their post to lose their stomachs.

Three daemons made it through the portal intact. Others were fused together, dying instantly, while others just didn’t materialize. They pulled themselves to their feet, dragging rotted cleavers and half-broken swords and maces.

Their skin was a sickly green, their bodies completely misshapen. It was as if their very limbs were dead and in the process of rotting and falling off. A few had eyes that were dripping from their sockets, hanging by bits of muscles, tendons and nerves; every so often, they twitched, still alive in some perverted manner.

“There he is. There is the Blessed,” the lead plaguebearer moaned, pointing his cleaver at Lord Ironclaws. “Take him for Grandfather Nurgle.”

They stumbled and crawled forwards.

“Why isn’t anyone firing?” Ironclaws roared. He lead by example, emptying his bolt pistol at the monstrosities. That was able to rose her men from their gagging. They opened fire, hitting many of the daemons.

But instead of falling under the withering lasfire and bolts, the damned things marched ahead. Las rounds burnt their skin, a few even boiled their decaying flesh, but gave them no more than sunburns.

Agostina and Ironclaw’s bolts punched their bloated bodies, but the rounds either bounced away harmlessly, or they detonated early, creating waves in the empty fold of flesh, which the so-called ‘plaguebearers’ ignored. The few men who had Ironclaws’ flamers smothered them in heat, bursting a few boils, but the burning gas didn’t seem to hinder them. Agostina never knew the burning scent of promethium could be such a welcome relief.

“Throne, how do we kill these thing?” Agostina demanded.

“Like this,” Ironclaws growled. He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Slayer! Burn the daemons! Slayer…?”

Saradas was puking uncontrollably. Vomit covered his hands and the front of his shirt.

“Slayer! Burn them, or we’ll be charged!”

The daemons roared as they got closer to the barricades. Saradas’ eyes bulged out of his head as the daemons broke into a run. He fumbled with his gun, then suddenly it spat out jellied promethean. The lasgun shot a second later, turning the entire jet into white hot heat, by far hotter than the normal promethean gas of the other flamers. His flamer was like a torrent of super-concentrated fire. The wall of death engulfed two of the three daemons, and it instantly turned them into a wailing funeral pyre.

“Ha ha! That’s it, Slayer!” Ironclaws was laughing. Laughing!

The last daemon braved the torrent, just as the custom flamer hit on empty. It shrugged off the few bits of burning, jellied fuel, and raised its mace high above its head. It failed to see Ironclaws bear down on it. His servo-arm plucked the raised weapon from the daemon’s hand, while the thunder hammer burst it like a boil. Bits of green gore and blood splattered the wall. There didn’t seem to be any skeleton on the thing; either that, or the bones had simply rotted away to nothing.

“That was too easy,” Ironclaws said, scanning the room.

“’Too easy?!’” Saradas screamed.

“Aye, too easy,” the Space Marine said. “I can smell something out there. Agostina, is there another breach?”

She pulled out her vox transmitter.

“Gordon, is there another breach?”

_No, there was only one._

“Where could it be?” Ironclaws mumbled.

The doors to the cargo area shuddered as something large and powerful struck them.

“…Oh, Russ, not that,” Ironclaws groaned. “Frost’s balls, _anything_ but that.”

“W-what was that?” Agostina stammered.

“That damn thing would stink up the entire ship.”

The doors shuddered again. Metal shrieked as a sword pierced the thick bulkhead. The sword was easily the size of a regular man, and seemed to be rusted and pocket-marked with boils. It leaked pus everywhere. The stench seemed to multiply, and then large, green hands pulled the doors apart.

A green giant that seemed to be comprised of entirely rotten flesh pulled itself into the cargo hold. It was massive, the size of the last greater daemon that attacked the ship. It crouched and pulled itself through the much smaller doors. Worm-like intestines spilled out of its belly, matting the floor with green waste.

“Tzeentch!” It bellowed. Its mouth was filled with teeth, all of them rotted. Its tongue lolled about, the color of an old bruise. “Tzeentch, you traitor! You know the danger the Blessed possesses!”

Agostina’s courage finally broke. Screaming, she opened fire, mindlessly pulling the trigger. Her crew were quick to follow suit. The…the thing’s bloated skin was like armor, shrugging off las-rounds and her bolts.

“Your plans for the Blessed will be ruined,” the creature ranted, clawing towards them. No, not clawing, it was pulling itself across the floor. “All must end! It is ordained by Nurgle himself! You cannot fight it!”

She realized that the creature wasn’t standing up because it didn’t have any legs. Its body was cut in half, probably more than half. Its legs were elsewhere, cut off by the mishap that Lord Ironclaws spoke of; it was dragging itself along the floor, spilling its guts throughout the ship’s corridors.  No wonder it was leaking blood, pus and intestines. It should have been dead twice over.

“You will be stopped, all of your scheming shall be made worthless!” It stopped its mad attempt at clawing the ground to bring its massive sword to bear. It clumsily swept it across the deck, hitting the closet container of adamantium and flung it like it was almost nothing. Agostina hit the ground, only to see the container falling on her.

She screwed her eyes and waited for the bitter end.

“Get up,” Ironclaws barked.

She risked opening her eyes. Ironclaws had caught the crate and was holding it at bay. One servo-arm was on the crate, the other was helping brace himself up.

“Get up!” She could hear the strain in his voice. She scrambled to her feet, her crew helping drag her to safety. With a roar, Ironclaws tilted, letting the heavy crate fall backwards.

“I’ll be feeling _that_ in the morning,” he groaned.

The crate fell backwards, against the thing’s head, but the monstrous creature just brushed it off. Ironclaws wasted no time in leaping at it, swinging his thunder hammer with all his might. It connected with its thunderous crack, and a wet _thwap_. The thing’s skin rippled, like how a stone upsets a still pond of water. It didn’t even make the daemon wince.

“Watch me end your plans!” Despite its size and bulk, the daemon moved shockingly fast. It took another clumsy swipe at Ironclaws, who was barely able to spin out of the way, taking the blow on his pouldron. The diseased blade split the armor open, and Agostina’s heart caught in her throat.

But Ironclaws wasn’t fazed by the glancing blow. He rolled to his feet, bolt pistol in his hand.

“Stay mobile,” he yelled, losing bolts at will. The thing’s thick, dying skin shrugged off bolt after bolt. “Keep out of its reach!”

Somehow, Agostina found the courage to stand up against the monster.

“You heard him, stay back,” she yelled, renewing her shots.

“You can’t harm me,” the thing rumbled through the hail of fire. “You can’t stand against your end!”

Flames licked its hide, and it shrugged it off, clawing its way towards Ironclaws. The Space Marine danced out of its reach, drawing it away from Agostina and her crew. With the thing missing it’s legs, it was slow to move and easy to get around.

“Slayer, where’s your flamer?” Ironclaws yelled.

“It’s empty, my lord!”

Ironclaws hissed in anger. He had lured the beast towards a corner, and was getting boxed into a corner.

“There’s a spare canister by one of the crates,” he yelled. He parried a blow, and was thrown to his knees. He got up as fast as he had been thrown, just in time to block another blow. “Hurry, I can’t hold this thing forever!”

“Where is it?” Saradas was panicking, like everyone else.

“Keep up the fire,” Agostina said. “I’ll help you.”

Just as Ironclaws said, there was a small box of canisters by one of the barricades. Saradas was trying to fit one into the gun, but they wouldn’t fit.

“Have you got it yet?” Agostina could hear Ironclaws’ thunder hammer connect, but there was no cry of pain from the daemon.

“They won’t fit!”

“The one with red tape,” Ironclaws yelled. “Use that one!”

Together, they flung canister after canister aside. So far, none of them had red tape.

“Here.” One of Agostina’s women ran up, holding a red-taped canister. She didn’t look familiar to Agostina, and she knew her crew. She tried to look at the woman’s face, but something kept her from getting a good look. It was like she couldn’t meet the strange woman’s eyes, or there was a fog covering her. “It rolled away.”

Agostina blinked, trying to clear her eyes. The woman was smiling, and her teeth seemed strange; too sharp,  too long, and too numerous. Saradas broke the moment by grabbing the canister from her hand.

“Any time now,” Ironclaws hissed. Agostina looked back; he was completely obscured by the daemon’s massive bulk, backed into the corner of the cargo hold. She turned to find the woman again, just to pull her aside. But the strange woman was gone, vanished into seemingly thin air.

“Come on, come on…” Saradas brought her back to reality. He pushed the canister into the gun, but it wouldn’t take. He tried again and again, until it finally clicked into place. “Got it!”

“Good! Burn the thing to ashes! Be quick about it!”

Agostina pulled Seradas to his feet, feeling some of his vomit squish through her fingers. They ran towards the massive daemon, seeing its organs spilling out of its now empty backside.

“There, aim for its spine,” she said, pointing.

Saradas tripped the flamer, and a gout of promethium spewed forth. The lasgun fired a second later, igniting the jet of jellied pitch into a torrent of flames. It flew into the daemon’s body, burning it on contact, and the thing finally yelled in pain as whatever insides were left were roasted. It thrashed, and Ironclaws took that moment of weakness to vault onto the thing’s head.

He brought his hammer down square on its spine, just below its head. He aimed at a single exposed, vulnerable vertebrae, and it cracked under his might. The daemon bellowed again, and Ironclaws raised him hammer again, using all of his might to shatter the bone.

With a sickening pop, the thing went limp. Saradas kept firing the torrential weapon until it ran out of fuel. By then, it was enough to set the daemon’s body on fire. The flames licked its body, working its way upwards. Ironclaws took a moment to plant four solid cracks on the daemon’s skull, just to make sure that it was dead, then jumped off its massive bulk.

“That,” he gasped, “was too close for my liking.”

“Lord Ironclaws, you’re hurt!”

He looked himself over. His armor had new dents and rakings. It was breached in places, and Agostina could see blood well out.

“It’s nothing,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Glancing blows; the thing couldn’t hold a sword right to save its life. It was just stupid strong. But I’ll need to fix my armor before our next fight.”

“But, your injuries…”

“I heal faster than normal humans,” he said. “Besides, that thing only managed to land a few glancing blows. They were barely scratches, my armor took the brunt of it.” He gave them a hard look. “Good job. My thanks for saving me.”

“D-do you want me to take that thing’s head, too?” Saradas stammered, no doubt dreading that moment.

“Hel’s teeth you crazy bastard, no!” Ironclaws gasped. “Have you _smelled_ that damned thing? You’re crazy, Slayer, crazy!”

Ironclaws gave him a hardly slap on the back, already laughing it up. Saradas tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but the putrid stench of the daemon made him gag again.

“What shall we do with that thing?” Agostina asked, pointing to the still-burning corpse.

“I say let it burn,” Ironclaws said. “It might not be much, but its freshening the smell a bit.”

Agostina had to agree with him. Burning promethium _did_ smell better than that monster.

“What next?” She asked.

“We have one more trial to come,” Ironclaws growled, holding up a finger. “The changer of ways. Gather your men, we need to work on our defensive position. I should attend to Niklas. He’s gotta be suffering.”

“Can we move to the bridge?” Saradas asked. “Somewhere it doesn’t smell as bad?”

“Aye, that’s good thinking, lad.”

“There!”

The air filled with lasgun fire and screaming men. Ironclaws didn’t miss a beat; he charged towards the barricade, pistol at the ready. Agostina followed just behind him.

“Hold your fire, hold your fire,” she yelled.

“We got it!” Someone yelled. “We killed the damn thing!”

By the torn apart doors was yet another pink horror, body riddled with holes from the massed lasgun fire. Blood leaked out as it twitched in its death spasms. It locked eyes with Agostina, and grinned. It had the same teeth, the same smile, she saw on the strange, faceless, fog-covered woman.

Was that the daemon in disguise? Did she nearly touch the foul thing? And why did it help them?

“Damned things,” Ironclaws growled. He rubbed at his dented and cut armor. “We need to move everyone out of this place. There might be more of those horrors waiting for us.”

“R-right,” she muttered, pushing the thought far from her mind. No good could ever come from nearly touching a daemon. She would have to keep it to herself.


	8. Cannonball Run

Agostina yawned, waking from another light warp-nap. She bumped into one of her crew, a slender woman from Sol. Mumbling an apology, she tried to get up without stepping on anyone else. The bridge was as tiny as her ship; as the temporary living quarters, it was even smaller.

The oval bridge was divided in two: men in the back, women in the front. In the middle was the pile of crates that held the salvages of the mess hall. Crates of adamantium were stacked at the doors at both sides of the bridge to serve as barricades.

Stretching, Agostina went to brew some instant coffee. Throne, she hated warp travel.

“Tired?”

She turned around. As usual, Ironclaws sat at the crate/barricades. His armor had rough panels of metal bolted to the places that the greater daemon had carved open.

“Always when we’re in the warp,” she sighed.

“You take sharing space with your crew very well,” he said. “Most rogue traders will never share a room with anyone else, let alone their crew. They’re too proud and noble.”

Agostina bit her tongue. To her, sharing quarters reminded her of home, with her sisters. Before they grew into cynical, razor tongued bitches, that is.

“I’m not like most rogue traders,” she said. “My family, we’ve been on the decline for decades. There have been compromises we’ve had to make to make ends meet.”

“In that case, you take it very well.”

“My thanks, milord. Respectfully, have you slept at all?”

“Hardly,” he replied. “Still waiting for our final trail. The arch-enemy is out there, and I have to remain vigilant. Frost’s balls, this has to be the longest warp trip I’ve ever been on.”

“The longest?” She sputtered. “The _longest?_ We’re barely a month into the trip. What kind of warp trips have you taken?”

“Until now, the longest I’ve been in the warp was three weeks.”

“Three?” Agostina laughed. “Lord Ironclaws, you’re spoiled rotten. Our trips last at least six or seven months.”

“You spend half a damn year in the warp?”

“At least! How could you say this is the longest warp trip?”

“For me it is,” he said. “Every other trip was a few days to a few weeks.”

“And you just so happens to travel halfway across the galaxy in the span of a few weeks? You are truly blessed to only have to suffer a few weeks in the warp,” she said, shaking her head. “The Emperor must really like you if all your trips are as short as you say.”

“And here I thought that’s just how things were,” he said. “Guess the arch-enemy doesn’t like me mucking around in his domain. He must spit me out damn quick.”

“Wait, did you say ‘arch-enemy?’ We’ve been fighting the arch-enemy since we started this blasted voyage.”

“Right, you’re not Fenrisian,” he said. “To the Vlka Fenryka, the arch-enemy are the sorcerers and daemons of Tzeentch.”

The last grinning pink horror popped into her mind. She had nearly touched it…She shook her head, trying to throw the memory from her head.

“Why are they the arch-enemy of the arch-enemy?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have the time.”

“Ha! So we do,” he laughed. “This is going back to the days of the Heresy. The Vlka Fenryka were ordered by the Allfather himself to hunt down and bring Magnus and the Thousand Sons low, for breaking his holy…his writ. Holy writ. So, led by our Primarch Leman Russ himself, we brought our fury down upon their home world of Prospero. Magnus had used forbidden magicks to assault Terra, and he wanted the sorcerer to be brought to heel. So he sent us.”

“The…Vlka Fenryka? I thought you were Space Wolves.”

“Bah, a rough, mistranslated name others give us,” he said with a wave of an empty servo-arm. “They don’t know our runes, our way of life, so of course they break us down to the lowest common number; makes us easier to categorize. Trust me, it takes a lot of work to seem _this_ barbaric.

“Led by Russ himself, we cut through his traitor fleet like butter, slaughtering his troops with ease and impunity. It was a good hunt, as we’re told. And Russ, the Wolf King himself, brought Magnus low, shattering his spine across his knee.

“But the traitor used cursed magicks to scurry his way back into the warp, taking himself and his legion with him. We failed in our duty to wipe him and his traitorous kind from existence, and that failure has haunted us since then.”

“So you hate the Thousand Sons, not this Tzeentch?”

“They’re one and the same. The Thousand Sons are bum boys for Tzeentch, and we’ll hunt them wherever they may rise.”

Agostina couldn’t help herself. She snorted, clasping her hand on her mouth.

“’Bum boys,’” she laughed. “I’m sorry.”

“They sell their souls for the secrets of the universe. How are they not bum boys?”

“No, no, I agree with you. But…come on, it’s a funny phrase.”

The Space Marine chuckled in agreement, rattling the tomes hanging from his neck.

“When they attack us, do you think you can kill them all?” The pot chimed, and Agostina got her coffee.

“I’ll be damned if I don’t give it my all.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Ironclaws fixed her with a stare. Having gotten a few of them, she held her ground.

“I didn’t.”

“Can you?”

“Don’t know. Without a proper forge on board, I can’t completely fix my armor, no matter how much Gordon helps me.” He rubbed the roughly patched sections of his armor. “If another great daemon were to breach the ship, I don’t think we’ll see real space again.”

Agostina sipped her coffee. Her nerves were long since frayed; her hands barely shook.

“They’ve been getting bolder, haven’t they?”

“Aye, and our luck seems to be faltering. The way things are going, we’ll be facing a very whole greater daemon soon.”

“What can we do, then?”

“Me? There’s no choice. I’ll fight to the bitter end. For you, I’d save one bullet.”

She stared blankly at Ironclaws. A servo-arm mimed a gun, and ‘shot’ his brains out.

“You can’t be serious!”

“I am. It’s the most merciful thing you can do. I’ve seen men and women be driven mad just from gazing upon Tzeentch daemons. I don’t want to bring up such matters, but it’s best to be prepared. I’ll do everything in my power to halt such an abomination in its tracks. This isn’t supposed to be your wyrd, after all.”

“‘Wyrd?'”

“Sorry, Fenrisian thing. Your wyrd is your fate. You’re rogue traders, not fighters. It’s not your wyrd, your fate, to die like this.”

“And you’re sworn to help us?”

“I’m sworn to aid any human of the Imperium. It’s a warrior’s duty, after all.”

“Have you always wanted to be a warrior?” She asked, rubbing her wrist, as if trying to get a spot out of her mocha skin. “Its…I’ve heard that all Space Marines were human, once. Have you wanted to be what you are now?”

“Careful, trader. Curiosity is a dangerous thing,” he warned.

“By the Throne, _everything_ is dangerous in the warp.”

“It is.” Ironclaws paused. “On Fenris, fighting was something everyone had to do. Fish swam, wind blew, and Fenrisians fought. What I wanted, what we _all_ wanted, was to live, and the only way to live in such a place was to fight.

“I had a talent for creating weapons, for fixing things. The metal spoke to me, and I listened to it. Eventually, my forging caught the attention of the Sky Warriors, the Vlka Fenryka. They saw my work, and they wanted to see if I had what it took to join their legions. I was given the Trial of Morkai, taking the gene-seed of Russ himself into my veins.

“When it was all over, and I was brought to the Aett to become a Vlka Fenryka proper, the machine spirit just made sense to me. I was shipped off to Mars to learn of the Omnissiah, taught to sooth the spirits, make them better. From that moment, what I wanted was two-fold: to fight, and to fix.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She asked.

“You know? I’m not quite sure,” he said. “It’s customary for pack members to sing each other’s songs of valor when we’ve passed on to Valhalla. Out here, I don’t have any pack mates. Maybe I just want someone to take my song on, bring it back to Fenris, to be shared and added to the tapestry.

“The worst insult we can give on Fenris is to either ignore an enemy, or forget them. We believe in strength, and _not_ acknowledging the strength of an opponent is the gravest of insults. Right now, that might very well be my fate: being forgotten. Part of me just wants someone to hear of my tale.”

“You’re going to tell me of _every_ fight you’ve been in, are you?”

“Russ’ blood, no! We’ll be here forever!” Ironclaws laughed. “I’ve lived for a long time, captain, as you probably suspected when I told you I fought in the First War of Armageddon.”

“I don’t know of _any_ wars of Armageddon, but you said it was five hundred standard years ago. And to think you might die on a rogue trader’s ship,” she snorted.

“Wryd how fate works, isn’t it?” The Space Marine simply shrugged. “If it’s my wyrd, my time, not even the Emperor could save me. But I’ll make them work for that kill, even if I’m to die in some far-flung corner of the warp, doomed to be forgotten.”

 _Captain._ Agostina’s vox transmitter chirped. _We’re getting close to the exit point. We should be breaking into realspace in mere minutes._

Agostina couldn’t believe it. They were safe, or nearly safe? Even Lord Ironclaws seemed relieved.

“Wake up!” She yelled. It felt so good to be alive! “We’re nearly out of the warp! Come on, we’re nearly there!”

Men and women woke up, ran to logic computers and began firing off commands. The ship rumbled as the engines sped up, spooling enough energy to tear a hole back into reality. Ironclaws stood ready, eying the whole bridge. He sniffed every so often, as if to find a daemon lurking somewhere. The engines roared, and then the ship fell silent. Blast shields that covered the view port were pulled back.

Ahead of them hung a ball of pure, blue ice, spinning silently. Milky white storms ravaged most of the planet. Ships glided silently by, most docking with massive space stations in the distance. Saradas yelled in joy, and the entire crew joined in. They were hugging, slapping each other’s back, happy to be alive. Even Lord Ironclaws grinned and heaved a sigh of relief.

 _This is the_ Eye of Fenris _, hailing the incoming vessel,_ the vox channel growled. _Identify yourself, or you will be fired upon._

“May I?” Ironclaws asked. Agostina gave him the vox caster. “This is Aevar Ironclaws, Iron Priest of Bjorn Stormwolf. Hold your fire, kaerl.”

 _M-my lord, of course,_ the woman on the other end stammered. _My apologies, but…_ W _e were expecting you in a month’s time, milord._ _We received word through the Astronomican that you would be returning to Fenris in approximately three standard months. That was one day ago, about the same time you were scheduled to leave._

“Thank you, kaerl,” Ironclaws said uneasily. “Send a shuttle, we require aid and a transport to the Aett.”

Ironclaws returned the caster to Agostina.

“We traveled to Fenris in _one day?_ But we were in the warp for a month,” she said.

“Time travels funny in the warp,” Ironclaws mumbled, stalking away.

“I know that, but it doesn’t take us a month of warp time to travel one standard day!”

“Shit, I remember one hunt where we spent two weeks in the warp, and we arrived before we left,” he said. “If you want to know about the warp, you’re talking to the wrong person. I’m going to check on Gordon and Niklas.”

He pushed a crate of adamantium aside and left the bridge. Agostina ran after him.

“You must have some idea of what happened to us,” she said.

“I don’t,” he tartly replied.

“But we were supposed to be tested by four chaos lords.”

“That was my assumption. It turned out to be wrong.”

“But, the daemons that attacked us…”

“Count yourself lucky, trader, and guard your curiosity. Brother Gordon, was the Geller Field assaulted prior to us leaving the warp?” He asked, walking into the tech priest’s chambers.

“It has been assaulted, yes, but not on the scale of the last three incursions,” Gordon replied, scanning the logic computer. “Ever since the last assault, the Field has held strong.”

“Most interesting,” Ironclaws rumbled.

“This is a blessing from the Emperor,” Gordon said. “We are saved from facing another horror from the warp.”

“Indeed.” Ironclaws seemed less than thrilled.

“Don’t tell me you _wanted_ to fight those warp horrors,” Agostina said.

“I’m a Son of Russ; I _love_ a good fight,” he said. “Remember what I said our greatest insult was?”

“To be forgotten, or ignored.”

“Aye. And the changer of ways has just ignored us. That cuts at my pride as a Fenrisian, and it also has me wondering: what has the enemy gained from _not_ fighting us? The changer of ways is known for carefully plotting and planning; he always moves to make a gain against something. What has he gained from this?”

“Wait,” Agostina said. “Didn’t that walking corpse curse him? That…putrid daemon. He cursed this ‘Tzeentch,’ saying his plans would fail.”

“It would be best to ignore anything that a daemon says, captain.”

“I know, but…but it just seems too convenient. That thing curses the last chaos lord, and we suddenly don’t face him.”

Ironclaws seemed to be contemplating it, but quickly shook his head.

“No, daemons exist to lie. Pay no heed of them, and just be glad that you are still alive.” He turned and placed a hand on her shoulder. A broad grin grew on his face. “Besides, you’re on Fenris! We’ve passed through the fires of the warp, and are stronger for it! I’ll see to it that we feast hearty tonight!”

 

* * *

 

The door to the drop ship fell with a clang, and the smell of the Aett’s shuttle bay filled Aevar’s nose. For the briefest of moments, he was overwhelmed by the promethium exhaust, sacred oils, cured leather, dried bones, and of course, the omnipresent smell of winter. Filling the bay were brother Vlka, kaerl assistants, and a nearly endless supply of mindless servitors.

He was home again.

He had taken one step out when a shadow fell over him.

Aevar was big for a Vlka Fenryka, but Bjorn Stormwolf was in another class altogether. He was so big, Aevar had to help custom make his Terminator armor to fit his massive size.

 _“Ironclaws!”_ Bjorn said, his ruddy, bearded face filled with a toothy smile. He didn’t even try to bellow; his voice was just naturally loud. _“My greatest Iron Priest has returned!”_

Aevar hoped his armor, and his ribs, would withstand the backbreaking embrace that was coming. Bjorn wrapped his arms around him and squeezed. The servos in the Stormwolf’s armor growled, not even exerting a fraction of their full might as they threatened to dent his armor.

 _“What happened to you?”_ His jarl’s bellowing voice demanded. _“I thought you’d treat your armor better that by attaching random bits onto it. You turning into an Ork, you bastard?”_

Stormwolf slapped his back, nearly knocking him to the ground, and roared with laughter.

 _“You’d best hope not,”_ Aevar laughed _. “Who else will fix all your damned bikes and tanks?”_

_“Aye, too right. I’ve had to make do with just good work, instead of excellent work! And warp travel…ugh, warp travel is a fucking pain. Normally it takes a few weeks to get around the galaxy, but for some damn reason now it’s taking months! You must’ve found a way to charm the damn warp, greybeard.”_

_“Me? Charm the warp? You’ve gotta be fucking joking,”_ Aevar replied. _“I’ll tell you about the trip here later. First, I want to get out and hunt something.”_

_“Aevar! Hjá!”_

He looked up, and saw a grinning Rune Priest loping towards him, totems and wards hanging from his armor and hair. Clan tattoos dotted his right brow, radiating from his eye like a sun, an iron node was in his left temple, and his head was full of fiery red hair. And, of course, his right gauntlet was covered in the dried blood of dozens of victims who underestimated his right-hook.

 _“Helfist, you bastard,”_ Aevar laughed. _“It’s good to see you.”_

 _“As good as it is to see you, brother,”_ Helfist said. _“You came back fast. You were barely gone for two standard years! Did Holy Terra scare you off?”_

_“Please, those musky Lords of Terra were just tired of me being right all the time.”_

_“Ah, it’s like you never left,”_ Stormwolf replied. He nodded to the group of rogue traders, who were shivering in the chilly bay. _“You adopt some strays?”_

_“They followed me home, my jarl. Can I keep them?”_

Stormwolf and Helfist roared with laughter. It was easy to make their jarl laugh, just as easy as it was to earn his ire.

 _“They’re the rogue traders I traveled with,”_ Aevar said. _“We ran into some daemon incursions on our trip, and they could use a few good meals in their belly before going on their way. Not to mention, I have to work on their ship to repay my gratitude._

 _“Captain Agostina, this is Bjorn Stormwolf…”_ Aevar realized that talking to his jarl, he had reverted back to Juvik, the native tongue of Fenris. It was an effort to switch back to Gothic. “This is Jarl Bjorn Stormwolf, lord of my company, and my fellow brother, Vermund Helfist, the Rune Priest I mentioned to you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lords,” Agostina said, chattering in the cold bay. “’Helfist?’ Begging my lord’s pardon, but since Lord Ironclaws mentioned you, I’ve thought it a strange name.”

“I’m good at punching things,” he said with a grin and accented High Gothic.

“Captain, you’ve done me a great service getting my man back to Fenris,” Stormwolf said. “Tonight, you’ll feast with us! Just be careful of our ale, it’s stronger than you think.”

 

* * *

 

Saradas didn’t know it was possible to feel this sore. He stumbled through the massive hallways of the Aett, leaning against the wall for support, trying to find his way back to the quarters they were given. He needed to get away from the damned woman before she woke up.

His head was two or three sizes too small, his face felt like it was mashed against a roller, his chest was sore, his arms were lead weights, he was sure that he was still bleeding from a dozen different small cuts and bites, and his legs…blessed Emperor, his legs were nearly jelly. He couldn’t walk straight.

At first, he thought the pounding he felt in his head was just that, in his head. But as he continued to stumble down the hallway, it got louder. Soon he came upon an open doorway, where the pounding was the loudest. He held his ears flat against his head, trying to get the noise to stop. He peeked into the doorway and waves of heat hit him in the face.

Inside were two Space Marines, talking in the language of Fenris. One held what appeared to be necklaces made of bones and stones, and he was chanting. One was Aevar, out of his armor, and was hammering something on an anvil. The other had red hair, a blood-stained right hand and strange totems in his left; he looked up, grinned and tapped Aevar on the shoulder.

“What?” Saradas mumbled.

“Looks like our little fishy went and got his cherry popped,” Aevar roared in Gothic. He set his hammer down and walked towards him. “Tell me, how do you like our hospitality?”

“He had a lot to drink for an off-worlder,” his friend said. Helfist! His name was Helfist! “You remember anything?”

“I…I don’t know,” he said. “I remember parts of the feast, but it’s a blur.”

“You don’t remember that rough woman you got?”

“Might have to be more specific than that, Helfist. Once we got him showing off those daemon heads he took, he probably took half the Aett to bed with him.”

“Oh, by the Emperor, not _that_ woman,” He gasped. “She did things I didn’t even know were possible! You have to get me away from that…that _harpy_. She wanted another go!”

“Bow legged, can’t walk straight…yup, you do remember our women,” Helfist laughed. Emperor, even his laughter was loud. He’d never been this hungover before. Or was he still drunk? “We wouldn’t dare get between a woman and her query! They do what they want, when they want. No easy way around it.”

“Oh, Emperor…”

“I thought you took a liking to us. Especially that she-wolf you bagged last night,” he chuckled.

“Oh no, the way she’s using me, I’m afraid my parts will fall off!”

“Stop it, Slayer, you’re killing me,” Aevar howled.

“You remember your first time?” Helfist grinned.

“What Son of Russ doesn’t?”

“Have to make sure, what with you getting advanced in age and all.”

“Watch it, whelp, or I’ll put you back on the ice where we found you.”

“Please, do that! Put me back on the ice where all those hearty Fenrisian women are at. Then the fox will be guarding the hen-house, if you know what I mean!”

“You’re hardly the proper figure to strike fear into the hearts of fathers, or make the lady’s legs shake,” Aevar said.

“Watch it, greybeard,” Vermund hissed. He tried to sound menacing, but Saradas could tell that he was chuckling at the jape. “I’ll have you know that made love to a fair maiden seven times in one night. What’s your record?”

“Let’s see,” Aevar said. He stroked his beard, deep in thought. “Once.”

“Once?” Helfist roared. “The mighty Ironclaws, made love only _once_ some blustery night? What did she say when the sun came up?”

“’Please, don’t stop.’”

Saradas couldn’t help but laugh at the look on Helfist’s face.

“You’re joking.”

“You calling me a liar? Well then, if you were there, what _did_ she say?” A few seconds later, he broke into a broad smile. “Enough bickering. We have to get the Slayer back to his she-wolf, then fix our intrepid rogue trader’s ship.”

“Wait, what? Give me _back_ to her? You can’t! Tell me you’re joking!”

“Come on, you’ll only be here for a few more days. Just need to get your strength back, then it’s back to the fray.”

 

* * *

 

The Space Marine’s transport landed in the cargo bay, and the area was re-pressurized. The assault craft’s doors lowered, and Agostina took a step back onto her ship. She was almost run over by a treaded, void-resistant servitor.

“Careful there,” Helfist said, walking out just behind her. “When old-man Ironclaws gets in a tizzy, he makes sure that his servitors work as hard as he does.”

“I can see that,” she said, looking around the cargo bay. Various crates of metal bracing, bolts and beams were scattered about. “Is there a reason why I was told to wear a pressure suit? Last I remember, my ship was air-tight.”

“Not the slightest. But don’t worry, Iron Priests take good care of their gear; Ironclaws will do you one better. You know those Mechanicus types, they get hard fawning over their machine spirits,” he laughed, making a rude gesture. “Iron Priests get harder than most. Don’t tell anyone, but we Fenrisians are actually a very passionate people. You would know, right?”

Agostina blushed despite herself, which just made Helfist laugh even more. She had too much to drink and went to bed with Erik, their translator kaerl. Not that she minded, he was a great lover, but she was the captain; she had to set an example to her crew. She didn’t want to be like Saradas, who would go to bed with whatever flimsy floosy would flirt with him first. The stupid idiot.

They rounded a corner and came face to face with a servitor standing guard of an airlock.

“Captain Agostina,” it said in a stammering vox-voice. “Helfist. Aevar requires your presence past the airlock. The following area is in vacuum; please fix your helmets and step in.”

Helfist slid his battle helmet over his rough and tangled red hair, while Agostina smoothed her wavy shoulder-length hair out before slipping her helmet on. The drone stepped aside and let them enter the airlock.

The door slid open, silent in the airless void, and they walked into the engine room. Her magnetic boots locked onto the thick metal grating. She blinked; the grating was the only thing keeping them from falling into the void. Her ship was cup open, utterly exposed.

 _Ah, Captain Agostina!_ She looked up, seeing Ironclaws walking towards her. He spoke on a vox channel. _You came at just the right moment!_

 _Where the fuck is my ships’ plasma reactor?_ She demanded.

_Don’t worry about it._

_‘Don’t worry about it?’_ She sputtered.  _This is my ship! My family’s ship!_ _How am I going to make my fucking living without an Emperor damned reactor, you…you…you shit for brains, lobotomized barbarian!!_

 _This kitty has claws,_ Helfist laughed.

 _Oh Captain,  you wound me,_ Ironclaws said, feigning hurt. _Your reactor was so small, it would be better to use it for a few projects I have in mind; so I took it. Actually, if you look out there, you can see my present to you._

Agostina grabbed the nearest handrail and peered out. A tugboat was pulling up, with a reactor in tow.

_You’re giving me a new reactor...?_

_I told you I’d repay your kindness and hospitality,_ he said.

_But, a plasma reactor swap? I don’t have that kind of time to spare._

_Bah, I could swipe an escort-class ship’s reactor in a week, maybe two if it was really stubborn,_ he said. _I can have this up and running in a few days._

_It’s…really big._

_It’s a toy,_ Helfist said, giving it a look over.

 _It_ is _a toy, but that’s because we’re used to riding around in cruisers,_ Ironclaws said. _To Captain Agostina here, it might as well be massive. Once I get it anchored  and up and running, you’ll have a bigger, brand new-ish engine._

_How much more powerful is the new reactor?_

_Once I’m done tweaking it, it’ll be easily six times more powerful, maybe even eight._

Six to eight times? They could cut their warp travel time by more than half.

_Thank you, Lord Ironclaws._

_Not too bad for a shit-for-brains lobotomized barbarian, eh?_

_Forgive me, my lord, but…I don’t like seeing my ship, my family’s ship, cut up like this._

_I can’t blame you. Now that you’ve seen your present, that reactor isn’t going to install itself. If everything goes well, this’ll be done in less than two days,_ he said. _Tell Slayer to live it up until then._

 _If he hasn’t already been fucked into a coma by that she-wolf,_ Helfist laughed.

_Too right! Keep an eye out for him, will you?_

Agostina stormed away. She was going to have a little chat with Saradas about professional conduct once she got back.

 

* * *

 

Aevar and Helfist stood next to the Stormwolf. The hanger was filled with his Great Company and kaerls, ready to bid farewell to their guests.

Agostina led her crew into the hanger. She wasn’t beautiful by Fenrisian standards; no scars that he could see, her hair was longer than some but shorter than most, and she didn’t have much meat on her bones. But she had a good figure and smooth mocha skin; she was probably beautiful in places that weren’t death worlds. She was probably breaking that poor kaerl’s heart by leaving. She walked up to Bjorn.

 _“Again, I thank you for your hospitality,”_ she said, bowing.

 _“It’s nothing,”_ the Stormwolf rumbled. Agostina spoke in High Gothic, and he matched her. _“I’m glad you were able to get my Iron Priest back so fast. Did you like our hospitality?”_

_“I doubt we’ve been showered with such hospitality in all my time traveling.”_

_“That is what we like to hear!”_ He roared. _“Come any time, and we shall welcome you with open arms! Our memories are long and our gratitude runs deep. So long as you’re captain of your vessel, you’ll have a friend on Fenris.”_

 _“My greatest thanks, my lord. I’m glad that you count us among your friends,”_ she smiled. Yes, that poor kaerl who shared her bed would be quite heartbroken. Memories can’t keep you as warm as a woman could. _“Sadly, we have to be on our way. There’s no rest for the trader.”_

 _“Then get on the damned ship and be gone with you,”_ Stormwolf laughed. Agostina laughed with him and led her men to the drop ship that would take them back.

 _“Slayer a moment,”_ Aevar said. _“I’ve got a trophy for you, a symbol of your might.”_

Slayer flinched at hearing his name. His ear had teeth marks on it, no doubt from that she-wolf he bagged. His cloths were unkempt, and his hair was a mess; it looked like she waited until the last minute to stop saying her good-byes. He held out a freshly forged mortal-sized sword. Saradas drew it; the blade itself had a deep, red glow, almost as if it was pulsating with red light.

 _“T-thank you,”_ he stammered. _“How did you make this?”_

_“From the blade of the bloodletter you slew.”_

_“This is a daemon blade?!”_ He yelled, nearly dropping it.

_“Easy there, Slayer, you’ll cut yourself something awful. Yes, I re-forged the daemon’s blade into a weapon befitting a killer like you. Oh, stop shaking. Back in my youth, I helped re-forge Logan Grimnar’s axe Morkai.”_

_“He got the axe after killing a Chaos champion,”_ Helfist added. _“Then old Ironclaws here helped him and a few other priests beat the corruption out of it. Trust us, it’s clean.”_

 _“T-thank you,”_ the Slayer said.

 _“Just be careful with the sword,”_ he said. _“The damn thing’s sharp enough to cut through most power armor. Now get out of here, and may your enemies tremble before you.”_

Slayer hesitantly bowed before double-timing it to the drop ship. Looking back at the crowd, he saw a kaerl with a scar across her face looking mighty proud of herself; no doubt she was the she-wolf who claimed the Slayer. Now _she_ was a looker.

The ship’s engines spun up, and the ship lifted off and flew into the sky. Bjorn led him men in a salute as they lifted off. They waited until it was but a speck in the sky, then he let his arm fall.

“Don’t just stand there,” he bellowed, no longer needing to speak in Gothic. “Get back to work! There’s wars that need to be planned for!”

Everyone hopped to their duties, albeit with a little grumbling from the blood claws.

“It’s good to get things back to normal,” Aevar said, staring out at the sky.

“Right enough,” Helfist said. “Now we all have our duties to see to and plans to carry out.”

Aevar froze. The Emperor’s plan for him burst back into his mind. He could see the tarot cards as clear as day, burned into his memory.

_Hope, from a discovery, shall lead to a champion._

“Are you okay?”  Helfist asked. “You wryded out there.”

How could he forget the Imperial Truth, and all that he’d learned in the Emperor’s library? It was just so easy to let things slide back into their normal routine; the relief from getting back home seemed to wash all of his cares away. It was so tempting to just fall back into old routines, old and familiar patterns.

But the Emperor had plans for him. And he knew those plans would alienate him from his brothers, his pack, possibly even his whole chapter.

_“And what are you going to do when no one else believes you?” Legato, the diminutive tech priest, asked him._

_“Pray for the strength of character to do it anyways,” he had said._

“Brother, I need your help.”

“You?” Helfist said. “You’re not one to need council very often.”

“Aye, that’s true, but in this case, I need help deciding what to do.”

“Alright then, how can my wise, whelp ways give you council?” Helfist chuckled. “You’re usually not so hesitant. Is this something big?”

“Bigger than any of us. Damn, where do I even start?”

“Ulrik always said, ‘start at the beginning.’”

Aevar shrugged. He would have to leave a few things out, of course. Helfist wasn’t ready for the Imperial Truth. Then again, who was? Was he himself ready for it?

“I…found something in the Emperor’s library when I was on Terra.”

“You were granted entry to the Allfather’s library?” Helfist gasped. “No one should be allowed in there.”

“It was a…special circumstance. And in there, I learned something. And that could change the Imperium. But I’m scared, brother. I’m scared that what I learned could lead me, you, us, everyone who learns it, down the path of damnation. You know the saying ‘the truth will set you free?’ I’m afraid that being free is worse than being chained to whatever binds us.”

“I thought that you were acting strange,” Helfist said.

“Strange? How so?”

“You’ve rarely mentioned the blessed machine-spirit since you’ve arrived. Normally you can’t wait to venerate it. What has happened to you?”

“Everything, brother. I’m changed because of it.”

“And you don’t know if your change is for the best, or for the worst?”

“What happens to me is of little consequence. What happens to the chapter, to the Imperium, is even more paramount. When I left Holy Terra, I told a fellow priest that I would have to pray for the strength of character to continue on my path. That is what I need to know; if I should continue down the path the Emperor has laid out for me.”

“Do you know if the Allfather himself wishes it?”

“We cast a drawing of the Tarot. Three cards marked my fate.”

“Three cards? I’ve never heard of a game of Tarot needing only three cards. But three is a good number, a strong number. It has to be the Allfather’s blessed voice, speaking through the cards. Shit, maybe that has to do with the strange reading I sense around you.

“Ever since you’ve returned, there’s been…a glow about you. As if the Allfather’s radiance was singling you out. It must be a blessing of some kind, some mark for greatness that you have been singled out for. I don’t mean to test the Allfather, but it looks that you need convincing; I’ll cast you a reading to confirm what I suspect.”

He pulled out a small leather bag of bleached bones, each of varying length. Runes were etched on each of them. He collected them all in his massive, armored palm.

“Allfather, hear our prayers,” he chanted. “Your servants stand before you, begging for but a fraction of your infinite, holy wisdom. Grant us the knowledge that we seek, and the protection from the Fell Powers that seek to ruin us all. Speak to us.”

He cast the bones against the floor. The bounced, at first going every which way, but on their second bounce, they all bounced in one direction. Helfist’s eyes widened.

“Did you see that?”

“How could I have not have?” Aevar replied.

“They all bounced towards one direction. I’ve never seen that,” he mumbled, scanning the horizon. “East. They bounced east.”

He bent down and looked over the bones. Three of them were face down, nine of them face up. Vermund read from the largest to the smallest.

“’The path chosen.’ The wolf’s eye rises in the east, starting a new day. A new day, a new path chosen for you. Do you believe it now, Aevar? The bones confirm your tarot: you’re to take the new path.”

Then the choice was made for him.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Aevar didn’t eat with his pack; he took his food and went to his quarters. As an iron priest, he had a room with a forge; he lived among his workspace, so that he could be called to mend or create a new item at a moment’s notice.

_The path of the righteous is never easy. If it was, we would not be in this predicament that we are in, would we?_

He remembered telling Legato that. Now was the hardest time for him: it was time to live by his words.

He deftly undid the armor of his left arm, exposing it to the shoulder. Then, reaching for his paring knife and a rag, he cut into the flesh by his elbow. When the gash was big enough, he grabbed a pair of tweezers.

When Aevar left Terra, he was exposed to a battery of scans and exams to ensure that he stole nothing from the holy planet. But they underestimated his resourcefulness, and failed to adequately search his room. Had they, they would have found disassembled parts for a rudimentary pict-capturer, before it were thrown out by the mindless servitors that cleaned the room.

If they found that, they would have been on the lookout for a memory sliver, a tiny piece of silicon-infused metal. Of course, even if they knew what to look for, the memory sliver was tiny, barely as big as the fingernail of his little finger, inserted into his flesh; and he knew how to heal while avoiding scarring.

He had sewn up brothers on the edge of death and brought them back. He had re-attached limbs, even stuffed the guts of one damned-fool blood claw back inside his own body,  even took the Chapter’s Dues all under the eyes of the Ljot Soothsayer, the veteran priest who sat in his sarcophagus-tomb, disoriented from his recent death.

Carefully, Aevar pulled out the tiny memory sliver out of his arm, his body already healing the cut. He cleaned it off, and loaded it into a servo-skull. It floated up and activated its holo-projector, showing the picts he had taken of the Emperor’s library.

There were schematics ten millennia old, and more importantly, lessons the Emperor had given the ancient Mechanicus to creating and improving machines, knowledge long thought lost and was now borderline heretical. But he knew that there was no such thing as the machine spirit. The next pict proved that; it was a copy of the Imperial Truth.

“To think we had the knowledge all along, but didn’t use it because of simple superstition,” he mumbled. But Aevar knew he shouldn’t mock superstition: until recently, he was one of the most superstitious members of the already superstitious Vlka Fenryka.

He wanted to pray, but knew how futile that was. Instead, he tore into his meal, and began studying. He needed to start somewhere.


	9. The Last Company of Russ

Wearing simple, rough-spun training garb instead of his battle plate, Helfist watched as the bay filled up with the blood claws. They were grumbling and bickering, two things raw recruits were any good at. The few grey hunters there snapped at them, yelled at them half-heartedly to get in proper lines.

Vermund remembered when he was in their ranks, how he would bit and bitch and groan and growl for next shot at immortal glory. Maybe his replacement was among them. Only time would tell who had the wyrd for greatness.

“You damned boys ready?” He snapped. “You’re here to learn something before the next hunt. Try to get some of it into those empty skulls of yours.”

“If you keep us pent up in the Aett, we’ll rot away into nothing,” one pale-haired claw yelled, encouraged by his fellow brothers. “Give us something real to kill and we’ll show you how ‘empty’ our skulls are.”

Helfist snorted.

“Remember when we were that cock-sure?” he said to the ever-patient grey hunters. “You’re head is plenty empty, young one. We’re here to make sure you keep your thread in one piece.”

“Might need to do that with the others, but not for me,” the claw said. “You’ll hear the tale of Aeskell Wight, and you’ll say you saw me before I made the galaxy shake.”

“’Wight?’ I can see that. You look like death paled over. Did they pull your ass out of ice? Looks like the slightest ray of sun would burn you to a crisp.”

“I gained my membership into the Vlka when I stood down two dozen frothing-at-the-mouth berserkers,” he said with pride. “I stood them down and cut all of their threads. Mine was almost cut when the Priests pulled me up. I haven’t warmed up since.”

“’Haven’t warmed up since?’” Helfist laughed. “You been practicing that line? Listen, and listen well: you were a big fish out there on the ice, but that was a small pond. Out here, you’re nothing. Think facing down twenty slightly-pissed off tribesmen was a big deal? That’s just to get your foot in the door. You’re in a bigger ocean. We’re trying to help you not get eaten.”

“We don’t need your help,” Wight said. He was really trying Vermund’s patience. “We’re the Allfather’s Angels of Death now. We’re useless without war.”

“You blood claws need all the help you can get.”

Wight jumped; old-man Ironclaws had suck up on the entire group of aspirants. For being a big old man in armor, he could move quietly when he wanted to.

“Well, look who’s graced us with his presence,” Helfist said. “Aevar! Where have you been for the past few months? I’ve seen hungover blood claws look more alive than you.”

“Just tired,” Aevar mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “The Stormwolf likes to keep me on my toes.”

“And this little self-imposed exile of yours?” Helfist asked. “You’ve been making scouts seem warm and friendly.”

“Just catching up on work. Besides, I don’t want to get in-between you and the recruits here,” he said, jerking one of his servo-arms at the blood claws.

“I wasn’t _that_ bad when I was new.”

“You’re right,” Aevar laughed. “You were worse.”

“You gonna try and teach us something, greybeards?” Wight demanded. “Or are you gonna keep on flirting with each other?”

That got the blood claws howling, and the grey hunters snorting. Helfist ground his teeth; the brat knew how to grate on his nerves.

“You gonna take that?” Aevar laughed.

“He’s insulting you, too.”

“But you’re the one who has to discipline him.”

That got Helfist to grin.

“You, Wight,” he said, “you think you’re hot shit? Let’s go one round, and see how smart you are when it’s done.”

The words were barely out of Helfist’s mouth when the blood claws formed a rough circle around him. Wight was pulling at his tunic, baring his chest, ready to fight.

“Russ’ blood, you’re as pale in the chest as you are in the face,” Helfist said. “I can almost see right through you.”

“Keep talking, greybeard,” Wight said, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll show you how deadly I am.”

“Ooh, stand back everyone, we got a badass over here,” Vermund said. He pulled off his shirt and held up one meaty finger. “One punch. That’s all I’ll throw.”

“It’ll take more than one punch to put me down,” Wight snapped.

“Doubt it. If I’m lucky, this punch will knock a couple decades of sense into you, save me from hearing you mouth off all the time.”

A grey hunter walked up between them, and looked them over.

“No hair pulling, no ball-kicking, no biting, and no druid magick,” he said. “First one to hit the floor loses. Get to it!”

Wight pounced on him, swinging left and right. Typical blood claw enthusiasm. Helfist bobbed and weaved, letting the punches flow around him. He had to admit, Wight had some potential about him.

“Come on, fight!” Wight demanded. Helfist let him land a hit. The blow sent him reeling for a second; it was a good punch.

“Okay, _maybe_ you do have some talent,” he said with a grin.

Wight growled and renewed his assault. Helfist watched his form; it was solid, with minimal openings. He wouldn’t be useless in a fight, which was good.

Helfist dodged and wove away, letting Wight push him around. Smelling what he thought was blood, Wight chased him. The blood claws roared and cheered, urging Wight onto bigger attacks and heavier punches.

Wight was getting into a solid rhythm when he over-extended himself. A hook left him too vulnerable, and Helfist was on good footing to capitalize on it. He launched himself off his back foot, casually lashing out.

He connected with Wight’s jaw, and the impact raced down his arm; it sounded more like a mallet connecting with a stake than a fist hitting flesh. Wight’s head snapped back, and he fell with a heavy thud. The blood claws’ cheers and jeers died in their throats.

Wight pushed himself up, trying to get to his feet. He barely got a foot off the ground before he went crashing back down. He tried again and again, but only flopped around. Finally, he knew when to just stay down.

“And that’s why they call him ‘Helfist,’” Aevar laughed from the edge of the circle. “Take note, maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Get him to the healers,” Helfist ordered, taking his shirt from one of the grey hunters. Three blood claws were quick to help grab Wight and haul him up. “The rest of you, get ready to work. Pair up, we’ll work on your form.”

Grumbling, the claws slunk into rows.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to get good at this?” Vermund asked. Then he realized that Ironclaws had walked off. He looked around and found him heading to work on a dead Predator tank. He looked the scuffed and sliced hull over, shaking his head at the terrible condition it was in.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asked, running over to Aevar. “You barely eat with us, you skip practices and drills, and you lock yourself in your chambers as soon as the sun dips below the ridge.”

“I’ve been busy,” Aevar replied, pulling at an engine panel with his servo-arms.

“Busy?” Helfist said. “ _That’s_ what you’re calling it?”

“You’ve seen my wyrd, you know what I’m supposed to do. Hel’s teeth, this thing is busted,” Aevar grumbled. “How long has this been sitting here?”

“It’s been busted for nearly as long as you’ve been away. Now stop trying to change the subject.”

“Brother, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been busy working on my destiny,” Ironclaws said. His servo-arms spun to life and began tinkering with the exposed engine.

“Sometimes I wonder if you got knocked about the head when you were gone,” Helfist said. “Don’t bother with this thing. It got a heavy knock from a carnifex in a hunt; it’s as dead as dead could be. It’s for spare parts now, the machine spirit was destroyed.”

“Was it now?” Aevar grinned.

“Will you knock off this mysterious bullshit?” Helfist snapped. “You’re turning into a different person.”

“I recognize my failings and will be sure to correct them,” Ironclaws said, deep in concentration. Helfist knew when he was being ignored; he scoffed and walked back to the training blood claws. The lines were moving fast; they were slowly learning proper fighting form.

“How many have been good rounds and not slap fights?” He asked a veteran grey hunter.

“Maybe half a dozen. They’ve got spirit, and not much else. Have to say, I’m curious to see what that Wight would have done. He seems good in a fight.”

“He has some promise about him,” Helfist admitted. “We’ll see once he comes around.”

They had just gone through one full line rotation when an engine loudly turned over. It coughed, sputtered, threatened to die and finally surged to life with a meaty roar.

Helfist turned around. Ironclaws stood by the dead Predator, tweaking it’s exposed engine. The tank was alive and roaring, spewing out black smoke as its machine spirit roared and sang. Other Iron Priests were walking over, staring at the mangled tank.

“Dead as dead could be, eh?” Aevar grinned.

“I saw that thing get sliced to pieces,” Helfist said. “Everyone knew it was gone. How did you fix it?”

“Just gave it some tender, loving care. Still needs some work, but at least it runs,” Aevar said. He shut the engine down, and it spun down with a purr. “Let’s get this thing back into fighting shape. This hull has more leaks in it than the Stormwolf has fleas in his beard.”

The gathered Iron Priests ran off, gathering the necessary tools to strip the battered armor and re-seat new panels of adamantium.

“Well, it’s good to see that you’re still as good as you once were,” Helfist said.

“I’m better than I was. At least, I’d like to _think_ I am,” Ironclaws said. His smile faltered, and he gave Helfist a square look. “I’m also almost done with my first project.”

“Is this the thing that’s keeping you locked up in your chambers?” Vermund asked. “The one that’s pulled you away from meal time and training?”

“The very one,” Aevar said. “I need you to examine it.”

“Dammit, Aevar, I’m a Rune Priest, not a cog head of Mars.”

“That’s not why I need you to examine it,” Aevar said. “Come to my chambers after supper. Please, Vermund, this is important. The entire Chapter could be thrown into madness because of this.”

Helfist stared at old man Ironclaws. He was as serious as the cold death, and if his expression was any indication, if he were capable of feeling the caress of fear, he would be positively shaking with it.

“Come on, greybeard, it can’t be that big.”

“It’s bigger,” Aevar snapped. “Please. As my friend and as a Rune Priest, I need you to examine this.”

“Alright, after our meal. What about the tank?”

“I did all the hard work. All that’s left is to repair the armor, and anyone could do that,” he said over his shoulder. “I need to finish a few things with it.”

Helfist shook his head. What was old man Ironclaws building in there?

 

* * *

 

Aevar looked his work over. It was taller than him, and stood empty. He had wired nearly a dozen melta bombs to it, on the joints, head, pauldrons, back and legs. The detonation switch was in his hand, and seemed to weigh a full ton.

Nearly a full Great Year of reading, calculations and more trail-and-error experiments that he would ever like to admit went into it, and this was the fruits of his labors. He wasn’t even sure how he got the damned thing to finally work. Why couldn’t Vermund get here faster?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity in its own right, there was a knock at the door. Aevar was quick to open it.

“About time,” he growled.

“You’re getting snippy all of a sudden,” Helfist growled back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Never mind. Just get in here. I need you to examine this,” Aevar said, pulling Helfist inside. “Can you sense any wisp of chaos about it?”

“About what?” Once Helfist was inside, his eyes opened wide. He stared at Aevar’s creation; a massive suit of Terminator armor. He whistled in appreciation. “Is this what you were talking about?”

“Yes, this is it,” Aevar said. His primary heart was thumping inside his body. So much so that his secondary heart was picking up.

“You make good Terminator armor, greybeard. Why do you need my help?”

“Scan it for the taint of Chaos!” Aevar yelled.

Helfist looked at him, as if to say ‘have you gone mad?’ Then he looked at the suit again.

“Wait, what kind of Terminator armor is this?” He asked.

“It’s an old set.”

“Old? The plasteel is brand new. I could eat off this and not get a speck of dirt in my meal,” he said. He looked the suit over again, and again. “What kind of armor is this? I know I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

He walked around the suit of armor. Instead of having rounded, sphere-like pauldrons, the pauldrons were squared slabs with a boxed end at the arms and a hard slope on the front and back. They were so big that they sat only marginally higher than the helm. Leather straps hung from the ends of the pauldrons.

Of the helm itself, only the top half was visible. The rest was obscured behind a layer of raised armor, acting as a sort of rim. The chest was thick, deep and heavy, more box-like than the chest piece of a normal Terminator suit.

The legs had no visible knee-pads, only a high shin guards that covered the joint. At the waist was another grouping of leather straps that hung low.

“What in Russ’ name is this?”

“That is the project I’ve been working so hard on. Now tell me, is there the taint of Chaos on it?” Aevar said, nearly pulling his hair out.

“You need to get out of your chambers more, get some fresh air,” Vermund said. “We’ve been blessing totems and carving runes of warding into the rocks of the Aett since Russ himself walked the planet. You couldn’t smuggle in corruption in here if you tried. This is probably the safest place to be outside of Holy Terra.”

“So you can’t smell anything?”

“There’s nothing to smell other than leather, sweat, plasteel and the stench of a man who should be getting out more,” Helfist said. “Besides, this seems to have a kind of glow about it. Reminds me of you, and how you glow.”

Aevar took a breath to slow his hearts.

“Why do you have so many melta bombs strapped to it? You trying to blow yourself up? And where is the Terminator Crux?” Vermund asked. “I can’t see it anywhere.”

“There is no Crux.”

That got Helfist to stop. “What?”

“There is no Crux Terminator on it.”

“Then how does it work?”

“It works because I somehow made it to work.”

“You’re not making any sense. How could Terminator Armor work without the Terminator Crux? Where is the fragment of the Allfather’s armor?”

“I told you, I made it without one.”

Helfist stared at Aevar.

“You…you, Hel’s Teeth, greybeard, this is heresy,” he gasped.

“It’s not heresy, brother.”

“What have you done, Ironclaws?”

“I made a better suit of armor; this pattern is called Cataphractii. And if you had sensed even the tiniest amount of corruption emanating from it, I would have turned it to slag in the blink of an eye.”

“This…you…” Helfist was at a complete loss of words. “This is blasphemy of the highest degree. What have you done?”

“Something that can either save us, or destroy us.”

 

* * *

 

Jarl Guards wearing true, Indomitus-pattern Terminator armor stood watch over Aevar. He sat on his bed as his room filled with Iron Priests, Rune Priests, and fellow brothers. The Guards held their weapons at ease, but in tight grips. One had an axe; its smile was inches away from his neck. The others held an assault cannon, a plasma gun and a storm bolter.

“How could you have made such a thing?” One Iron Priest said. “This is a Cataphractii pattern, lost to the ages from the Heresy. It exists only in pictures, battle songs and in the vaults of Mars.”

“I found a way to make it, brother.”

“And you commit an act of heresy in making this?” A Rune Priest demanded.

“There is no smell of Chaos on it, or on him,” Helfist said. “You should know that, _brother_.”

There was a pounding of rock, and Bjorn Stormwolf barged into the room, nearly knocking the door off its hinges and crushing a servitor underfoot in his own personal Terminator armor.

“Ironclaws, where are you?” He demanded, his massive voice filling the room without any effort. “What in the Allfather’s name is going on here? What’s this talk that my best and brightest priest has been turned to heresy?”

“This, my lord,” an Iron Priest said, pointing to the Cataphractii armor.

“Fuck’s sake, what’s that?”

“A suit of armor that should belong in the battle songs,” a priest spat. “Aevar has committed an act of heresy to gain the forbidden knowledge necessary to make this.”

“Ironclaws would never utter a spittle of heresy!” Stormwolf roared.

“He’s not wrong, my jarl,” Aevar said. “I found a piece of knowledge that enabled me to make this.”

Stormwolf stared at him with utter shock.

“I’m not speaking heresy, just the truth,” Ironclaws said. “I’m no traitor, I’m as loyal as the sun is bright.”

“Heresy takes many shapes and forms. We must all remain vigilant of it.” Everyone in the room stood at attention; Ulrik the Slayer walked into the room, followed by the High King of Fenris himself, Logan Grimnar. Even out of their armor, they carried with them the very air of respect and fear; fear that they were not supposed to feel.

“My king,” the Stormwolf said, kneeling.

“What’s this tizzy everyone’s got caught up in?” Logan said. “I’m hearing rumors fit for a spinster’s circle, not the Allfather’s Angels of Death.”

“My liege,” a Rune Priest said, stepping forward, “it’s…”

“That’s a mighty fine suit of armor,” Logan said, cutting the Rune Priest off. He walked up to the suit and gave it a hard look. “Looks old and new at the same time. Who made this?”

“I did, lord,” Aevar said.

“So _that_ much of the rumor is true,” Logan said. “And where did you hide the Terminator Crux?”

“I…I didn’t make it with one.”

“Ah. So that’s why you’re staring down the barrel of quite a few guns and the smile of an axe,” Logan said, wrinkling his brow. “Now, I’m not a member of the Mechanicus, so refresh my memory: isn’t it impossible to make Terminator armor without the Crux? More to the point, isn’t it _heretical_ to make Terminator armor without a Terminator Crux?”

“It is, sire.”

Logan grunted. “That’s why you’ve strapped enough melta bombs to blow it to the sun and back, eh? And he isn’t dead because…?”

“Because I stayed their hands,” Helfist said, walking up to the High King and looking him in the eyes. “Ironclaws isn’t a heretic.”

“I throw my word in with Helfist’s,” the Stormwolf said, stepping forward. “Aevar is too loyal to even think about turning traitor.”

“I know that,” Logan said. “Or, at least I thought I knew that.”

“You _thought?_ ” Helfist asked. “Sire, he _is_ loyal.”

“So I remember. I know he helped me pound my axe into a real weapon, not some daemon-forged monstrosity. That’s the only reason I’m not loping his head off myself.”

“But you just asked why he hasn’t been killed.”

“I did. To commend the man who saved his life for the current time. We can’t go around killing supposed heretics willy-nilly; we’d have to kill everyone who gave us a sideways glance, and considering our reputation, we get a lot of sideways glances. Sooner or later, we’re no better than the fucking Inquisition.

“No, I’m more curious as to why you claim he’s not a heretic. As Ulrik here is fond of saying, heresy takes many forms. Speak, brothers. Why do you say he’s not a heretic?”

“Because he’s been marked by the wyrd,” Helfist said. “Ask any other Rune Priests, we can all sense it. He has a glow about him, as if the Allfather himself were looking down on him, leading him, blessing him.”

The numerous Rune Priests in the room hesitantly nodded.

“Hm. Now that’s interesting,” Logan said. “But he still committed an act of heresy. I’m surprised he was even able to make this thing without crying to the machine spirit.”

“I’ve…” Aevar bit his tongue. “I’ve seen things, learned things.”

“What’s that saying about an open, unguarded mind?” Logan asked rhetorically. “It’ll lead to dark places or something…?”

“I know what the teachings say, but the Emperor has shown me my wyrd. I’ve seen it, and I can only comply with them.”

“Ulrik?”

“I’m not a Rune Priest, I can’t scry him,” the Slayer said. “I’m not an Iron Priest, I can’t examine the armor he made.”

“And what of the heresy he’s committed?”

“He would need to stand trial, that much I do know.”

“And the fate of this…thing he’s created?”

“Because it’s still in one piece, I can guess that there’s no smell of Chaos on it,” Ulrik said. He turned to the gathered Rune Priests; they grudgingly nodded. “Then this thing’s fate is tied to his own. If Aevar is found to be guilty of heresy, we’ll destroy it, along with him.”

“And if I’m not?” Aevar asked.

“Then things would become very interesting,” Ulrik tightly replied.

“So it looks like a trial is in order,” Logan said. He looked at Aevar. “I’ve fought with you back on Armageddon. And you’ve helped forge my axe, for which I’m grateful. But, as the High King and ultimate judge, I won’t take that into—“

“Begging your pardon, sire, but I request that my case be brought to Bjorn,” Aevar said.

Logan’s eyes narrowed and everyone in the room seemed to glare at Aevar. They knew which Bjorn he was referring to, and it wasn’t his Company’s jarl.

“Are you certain that the Fell-Handed would listen to you?” Ulrik asked. “If he can’t be roused from his slumber, you would have wasted your king’s time.”

Ulrik didn’t need to add that wasting Logan’s time was as good as a death warrant.

“Ironclaws, I’d reconsider,” Stormwolf said with a warning edge to his voice.

“I’m sorry, jarl, but this is the risk I decide to take,” Aevar said.

“Very well,” Logan chuckled. “It’s your right to request a trial with Bjorn the Fell-Handed. We’ll see if he humors your request.” He looked to the Iron Priests and pointed to the Terminator armor that Aevar made. “Get that thing ready to move. If we can wake Bjorn, that’ll be evidence for his trial. We should probably get the other Companies others to come with us; it’s not every day that we could see Bjorn. ‘Till then, put him in irons.”

 

* * *

 

Nearly the entire Chapter had turned out to try to see the mighty Bjorn try and be woken. They formed long lines as they walked towards the deep, wide heart of the Aett, followed by dozens of kaerls and teams or servitors.

As they travelled further and further down, the air grew colder and colder, and the hallways seemed to grow bigger and bigger. To Aevar, it was particularly cold as he wore thick and heavy iron chains on his wrists and feet that sucked any warmth from him. He could only walk marginally more than a shuffle, and was being pulled along by armored Jarl Guards.

Occasionally, from the shadows, a cyber-wolf would appear. They would glare at them, then either follow along, or blend back into the shadows of the cavernous Aett.

“What were you thinking?” Aevar looked up; Helfist was talking to him.

“You shouldn’t be talking to me.”

“I just want to know why you demanded a trial in front of Bjorn,” the Rune Priest snapped. “If he doesn’t wake up, you’re as good as dead.”

“Such is my fate.”

“And what of the Allfather’s blessing you have? You’ll let that go to waste? You’ll abandon your wyrd?”

Aevar sighed. What _was_ he thinking? Bjorn hadn’t been awake in decades, and even when he was woken, sometimes he deemed the reason to be unworthy and went back to sleep.

“I-I don’t know,” he said. “The only one who could hear reason is Bjorn. And I can’t demand a trial by combat; heretics don’t _get_ trials by combats. Something told me that this was the only way.”

Helfist glared at him as a Jarl Guard pushed him away. Russ’ blood, what was he doing? But he knew his wyrd, had seen his fate sealed with three cards, and knew that this was all he could do. If the Inquisition couldn’t find any chaos on him, surely this wouldn’t be a problem.

He couldn’t help but feel the twinge of rejection on him. This was his Chapter he would be talking to, not just Helfist. Hel’s teeth, he’d have to talk about the Imperial Truth. Was _anyone_ ready for that?

At long last, they came upon the large, thick doors that held the Chapter’s revered dead. Aevar looked up and saw Arjac Rockfist, Grimnar’s shield himself, key the massive doors open. The procession marched into the tomb of the dreadnaughts. Hundreds of metal bodies sat deep in their slumber, but at the head of the tomb was the Fell-Handed himself.

Already massive for a dreadnaught, Bjorn’s chassis was adorned with intricate gold leaf, dozens of pelts, a single massive, masterfully crafted lightning claw, and a helfrost cannon. Aevar felt the temptation to fall to his knees; this was the last person to have seen Russ himself, perhaps even the Emperor himself.

His chains were pulled and nearly did fall.

He was placed in front of Bjorn’s sleeping form. His chains were quickly hammered to the ground, and his suit of Cataphractii armor was wheeled next to him. He risked a quick look behind him.

The chapter had broken into their various companies, with their jarls at the head. He saw Bjorn Stormwolf looking on with forced disinterest. He even saw Ragnar Blackmane standing at ease, looking bored. Njal Stormcaller was having a heated debate with Helfist.

“Brothers,” Logan snapped, and all was quiet. “One of our own stands accused of heresy. Per his right as a Son of Russ, he demanded to be judged by mighty Bjorn. Whether the Fell-Handed would hear his case is why we are here, because if he doesn’t hear the case, Aevar Ironclaws has just wasted all of our time.”

The High King held his axe, Morkai, in a loose hand. Aevar swallowed hard. It might be tasting his blood very soon.

“Brother priests, let’s see if Bjorn is feeling talkative today.”

The Iron Priests approached Bjorn’s dreadnaught body with reverence, and began the Rites of Activation. Aevar felt the cold worm its way through his body as the iron shackles grew colder and colder. He listened to the idle chatter, and ignored all of it. He knew what they were talking about, and he didn’t care to hear the odds of his survival.

Suddenly, a spark of energy came to life, and the oldest Space Marine in the entire Imperium began to wake.

“That was too easy,” Aevar mumbled to himself. He had been tasked with waking Bjorn in the past, and it took much longer than that. Was it his wyrd that woke the Fell-Handed? Was it the Emperor who made it easy? Or was it just the dumbest of luck?

**+Who wakes me?+** Bjorn’s voice was a deep rumbling, as if it was as if the shaking rocks themselves.

“Jarl Bjorn, it is I, Logan Grimnar, High King of Fenris,” Logan said. “We stand here bespeaking you for your advice. One of our own stands accused, and wishes to have you stand as judge.”

**+All of this for a simple judgment?+** Bjorn said. **+Who is he, and what’s he been accused of?+**

“My name is Aevar Ironclaws, and I’m accused of heresy,” he said, stepping forward as much as his chains allowed.

**+And you’re still breathing?+**

“Requesting you as his judge is his right,” Logan said.

**+So it is.+** Bjorn took a step forward and swept the area, locking onto Aevar. **+Very well. Why are you accused of falling into league with the Dark Gods?+**

“It is what I made,” Aevar said.

**+Made? You’re a member of the Mechanicus?+**

“I am, mighty Bjorn.”

**+Stop with this ‘mighty’ business, I’m fucking sick of it. What have you made?+**

“This,” Aevar said, raising his hands to point to the Cataphractii–pattern armor he made. Bjorn turned, staring at the armor. He was silent for a long time.

**+I haven’t seen armor like that in many years,+** he finally said. **+I thought it was all lost.+**

“I found it again.”

**+That…that’s good.+** The idle chatter behind Aevar picked up. **+Is that why you are here?+**

“Yes, it is.”

**+Why is this considered heresy?+**

“Bjorn, he created the armor without the Terminator Crux,” an Iron Priest said. “He perverted the sacred design to create his own armor, one that holds daemons.”

**+’Sacred design?’+** Bjorn seemed to groan. **+Is the armor full of daemons?+**

“Er…no, not a one.”

**+Than why’d you wake me? He’s done nothing wrong.+**

The idle chattered rose, mostly within the ranks of the kaerls.

“He created the armor without a Terminator Crux. That flies in the face of what the Mechanicus has ordained.”

**+Hm. I don’t know much about the rules of the Mechanicus, but continue. How’d you find what was lost?+**

“I…I was able to enter the Emperor’s library on Holy Terra,” Aevar said.

“What?” The Iron Priests weren’t the only ones to voice their disbelief.

**+Only the Emperor himself should walk those hallways. Why were you allowed?+**

“I can’t say; I swore an oath to the Adeptus Custodes to never speak of the reasons why I was brought to Terra.”

A deep grumble echoed from Bjorn; he was chuckling darkly.

**+You know this doesn’t look good on you.+**

“Yes, jarl, I know.”

**+How were you able to make this armor?+**

“I…I also found something in the library.”

**+What was it?+**

“The Imperial Truth.”

Bjorn seemed to sigh as he stared at Aevar. Many heads turned behind him, but he kept his gaze on the Fell-Handed. Bjorn was quiet for a much longer time.

**+I haven’t heard the Truth in so long,+** he eventually said. **+I feared it was my mind losing sense.+**

 “It isn’t, jarl.”

**+I haven’t heard that in such a long time,+** he said, voice drifting away as if lost in a memory. **+Such a long time…+**

“Jarl Bjorn, what is this ‘Imperial Truth?’” Logan asked.

Bjorn seemed to chuckle.

**+Tell them.+**

Aevar swallowed. He wasn’t supposed to feel fear. He turned to his chapter, his company, his pack, his friends and brothers. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t bring himself to talk. The words seemed to catch in his throat, twisting it until it threaten to burst.

_If I open my mouth, everything would change,_ he thought. _I would be shunned, I would be hated, I would be reviled. And my chapter…we would all burn._

“What is this ‘Truth?’” Logan asked again.

**+Yes, tell them.+**

Oh, by the Emperor, he wished he could pray. He wished praying could do _something_ more than nothing.

“The Imperial Truth says the Allfather—the Emperor…”

Aevar swallowed.

“The Imperial Creed, the belief that the Emperor is a god, is just what the traitors say: a damned lie. Everything we do to guard the Imperium is safeguarding the biggest lie in the history of humanity.”

Almost instantly, the hall seemed to be flushed with the pungent scent of the kill-urge. They were superstitious to a fault, and while they might not believe the Imperial Cult as strongly as the Imperium at large, it was still heresy to speak what he had just said. Hair stood on end, hearts began pounding, and rage thickened the veins. Suddenly he was no longer a brother, but a vile traitor.

Ragnar Blackmane, the Young King, reacted first. With a vicious roar, he launched himself at Aevar, swinging his massive chainsword with such speed and ferocity Aevar missed seeing him draw it. The blade whistled down on him to split his skull.

Suddenly, Ragnar was brushed back by Bjorn’s claw, who stepped forward to defend him. The blow was gentle, pulled, but sent the Young King flying. Blackmane landed on his feet.

“Heretic!” He bellowed. “You dare blaspheme against the God-Emperor of—“

**+He hated that name.+**

Blackmane’s tongue seemed to catch in his throat and he halted, mid-syllable, his eyes threatening to bulge from his head. Everyone seemed to halt with him, with the kill-urge halting as well. The entire chapter had stopped, staring with slackened jaws, at Bjorn.

“W—what did you say?” Logan stuttered.

**+He _hated_ that name, the ‘God-Emperor of Mankind.'+ ** He spat the phrase out with undisguised heat. **+He hated it when people would whisper it behind his back. He hated how people always piled on the praise with that being the first thing out of their mouths. He _hated_ that they always wanted to call him that.**

**+I don’t know where we went wrong, or how we went wrong. But somehow, somewhere, we failed him. All of the efforts of the Great Crusade, bringing world after world into compliance, all of it was for nothing! And here we stand, doing the one thing the Emperor hated above all else: _worshiping_ him like a pack of superstitious cowards.+**

“What are you saying?” Ulrik asked.

**+This thing, this ‘Imperial Cult’ that everyone has been worshiping, was nothing more than a flight of fantasy. Every time I was woken, it was a little bit stronger, a little more important. Somewhere in the past, it was all anyone had ever known. I remember a time when no one would dare say the word ‘worship’ or ‘god.’ I thought I was going insane. Thank you for proving me wrong.+**

“Bjorn, you can’t be serious,” Blackmane said.

Bjorn slowly rounded on the Young King.

**+You dare call me a liar?+** He demanded, advancing on him. With every step Bjorn took, Ragnar took three backwards. **+I, who fought with Russ himself? I, who have seen the Emperor before he sat on his throne? You dare call _me_ a _liar?_ +**

“Bjorn, please, this was all we have known,” Aevar said. “When I first learned the Truth, I thought I had brought Chaos into the Emperor’s throne room. It nearly broke me; it nearly killed me.”

Bjorn stopped advancing. Ragnar was being pushed back through his company, nearly onto his knees.

**+We’ve fallen so far. But maybe this can all change. You’ve created lost technology. If we’re to reclaim our past glory, this is where we start. You must make more, so we can reclaim worlds, bring them into compliance once more.+**

“Bjorn, we can’t say that the Allfather isn’t a god,” Logan said. “We would be branded traitors faster than water freezes in the winter. You can’t make us turn on the words that have defended for so long.”

**+Yes, we’re only one world against countless others. What would the Emperor have done…?+**

“He can’t be allowed to live,” Ulrik said, pointing to Aevar. “His every breath is blasphemy.”

**+Then let him blaspheme,+** Bjorn said. **+After all, he created armor that I haven’t seen since Horus turned traitor.+**

“We don’t even know if it will work,” Arjac said.

**+Then test it. See for yourself how sturdy the armor is.+**

“Very well, we shall leave you—“

**+Leave me? I’m coming to see this test as well. If he can do but a fraction of what I hope he can do, he can save the chapter from fading away into obscurity.+**

“I beg your pardon, but what does that mean?”

**+We went from dominating the heavens to being scared to launch ourselves through the immaterium. We’ve lost so much technology, the Imperium should have fallen apart already. If we can recover even a fraction of the lost technology, of our deserted glory, we could re-forge the Imperium, make it strong again. It would be a second Great Crusade.+**

“I…see.” It was obvious that Logan held no idea what Bjorn was ordering; neither did anyone else, from the looks of confusion they held in their eyes. Bjorn was talking of a goal no one knew; he seemed to be lost in his own mind.

**+Then why are we standing around? Take us outside to test this armor.+**

 

* * *

 

The walk into the heart of the Aett took many hours. The walk back felt longer still. Aevar knew he would be shunned, but knowing that fact and experiencing it personally was the difference between being told about frost’s bite and feeling it take a hold; it was simply not the same.

 He knew that Grimnar would avoid him. Ulrik and Arjac, too. But his jarl, the Stormwolf, shunned him as well. He refused to even look in his direction. The grey hunters and blood claws avoided him like the plague, even Helfist gave him a wide berth. Sensing his rejection, the occasional cyber-wolf that slunk out of the shadows turned from him as well.

The only one who walked with him, who seemed oddly immune to the mood of the Chapter, was Bjorn the Fell-Handed. Encased in his dreadnaught armor, he seemed to move with purpose, each step powerful and upbeat.

It was impossible to tell if he had a spring in his step; his machine body prohibited such intricate movement, but Aevar had the feeling that he was happy. Maybe it was a wayward scent that was escaping his sarcophagus.

“Is everything well, Bjorn?” Aevar asked.

**+More that well,+** the Fell-Handed said. **+Seeing this armor that you have made, and finding the validation that my memories are my own and not just part of my centuries-delayed death, it has made me feel young again. New, even. It…+**

They trudged up the next level of steps, the massive, black stone slabs too big for a regular human to climb in one step. Bjorn walked two steps at a time, and Aevar had to almost run to keep up with him. The chapter branched out, giving him dozens of fathoms of space both ahead and behind him. The small term of servitors and kaerls that were tasked with rolling the newly forged Terminator armor struggled against the weight of it as they hoisted it from stair to stair.

**+I haven’t felt this way in so long, I forgot what it feels like. This has given me hope for the future.+**

“Hope? But, we’ve been guarding the Imperium for centuries, hunting and killing the enemies of man and the forces of Chaos at every turn.”

**+It is a holding pattern. Every battle that we’ve won is merely a stay of execution. With every win, we lose a little bit of us. With every loss, that is magnified by a thousand. There’s no true measure of glory that wait for us, just another battle to fight to save a sinking ship.+**

Aevar bit his tongue. Was Bjorn always this pleasurable to be around?

**+Now, though, with this discovery, we can recover our lost glory,+** the oldest Sky Warrior said. **+Maybe now we can truly win, make gains against the darkness.+**

“But the chapter despises me. The only reason I’m alive is—“

**+Because of me, yes, I know the position that you’re in. Fear not. Once they see the promise this armor of yours holds, they’ll be more open to it.+**

“How can you say so?”

**+If you found a better weapon than the rusted, half-broken sword you use, would you use it, even if it was of a strange design? What if it had blades for a cross guard? A spike for a pommel? A serrated edge on the killing edge?+**

“I’d…be hesitant.”

**+But you would use it if it proved itself, wouldn’t you?+**

“Without a doubt.”

Bjorn turned to the servitors struggling with the massive armor.

**+That suit is that strange sword. Once they see how well it works, they’ll start to use it, and your exile would slowly end.+**

Aevar held his tongue; one didn’t talk back to the Fell-Handed. But in his hearts, he hoped Bjorn was right. So much more than his shunning was on the line.


	10. Blasphemer

Their march took them to a slope just outside of the Aett. One of the omnipresent storms of Fenris had blown through, blanketing the slopes with deep snow drifts, virgin and unbroken. Only the newest Blood Claws and rawest kaerls shivered from the cold.

**+This is good ground,+** the Fell-Handed said. **+How do you test armor and recruits these days?+**

“We run them,” Logan said. “Chase them and see how they handle being hunted, and how they turn the tables on the hunter.”

**+A good way.+** Bjorn scanned the slopes. Thirty meters off, down a sizable slope, was a thicket of trees. They ran for another fifty meters, than thinned out as they climbed back up the slope.

**+He’ll run for the thicket,+** Bjorn said, pointing with his massive lightning claw. **+and you’ll shoot him with dummy rounds, see how well he can avoid being hit, and how well he takes being hit. Once in the forest, he’ll have to kill several combat-fitted servitors, then run back up the slope where he shall fight you man-to-man.+**

Logan smiled. Aevar could hear the Grey Hunters chuckling; no doubt they were already taking bets on how long he’d last against the Old Wolf. He knew Logan wouldn’t pull any punches, _no one_ would dare pull a punch, but going against the High King himself? The most Aevar could do would be to survive.

**+Send the servitors into the woods, and begin arming yourselves. We’re wasting precious daylight.+**

The Vlka began spreading out, getting a good view of the battle to come, leaving Aevar alone with the Fell-Handed, his Cataphractii armor, and a team of servitors.

“You know they won’t use dummy rounds, right?”

**+Of course.+**

“Is this more testing? I don’t want to die at the hands of my own Chapter.”

**+It’s all a test, and the more rigorous the test, the more they’ll trust you when you win. You _do_ plan on winning, don’t you?+**

“What Son of Russ would I be if I didn’t?” Aevar snapped.

**+There’s the fire in the blood that you need,+** Bjorn laughed.

The servitor pulled apart the armor, and began the process of sealing him inside. The servitors worked fast, but the process still took nearly an hour. The armor was more like a second skin than metal plates, and it was all terribly heavy until the power pack was attached and activated. Aevar nearly fell over four times until the pack kicked in, activating the armor and engaging the servo-motors. It was like his strength was doubled, tripled even. He sprung up, suddenly very sure of his center of balance.

He bent at the waist, testing the range of motion he had. He stood, knelt, jumped and ran quick bursts of knee-highs. The armor responded wonderfully, just as it should.

**+That armor seems different from my time. Quicker.+**

“Much of the design were eroded. Ink was smudged, pieces were missing, rotted away from time. I had cannibalize  much of our own armor designs to fill the gaps.”

**+Cunning; a true Son of Russ. Better than those who blindly follow so-called ‘tradition’ and the superstitious rot that infects us all.+**

Instead of carrying a gun, Aevar had installed a storm bolter onto the forearm. He ran it through a pre-battle check; it spun up perfectly. A kaerl walked up, carrying a power sword for him. He examined the rusted blade; it seemed better suited for a half-speed sparring match with a servitor than a true battle for life. He sighed; the Chapter truly wanted him dead. He would have to prove them wrong.

“You’d better have a tough test ready for me,” he said to the nearby Grimnar, pride and a snarl in his voice.

“We wouldn’t insult you by going less than all-out,” he grinned back. He stood, his trusty axe Morkai in hand. “Hope you’re good at running. You’ve got a five second head start.”

That was all that Aevar needed. He took off, crashing through the nearly waist-deep snow. The servo-motors of the suit made it as easy as a stroll, like there was nothing there at all.

Breathing deep and evenly, he almost missed the sound of a bolt flying over his shoulder. The next one landed squarely on his shoulder. If he were wearing simple power armor, he’d be thrown from his feet; instead, the thick plate took the hit without any effort. The bolt exploded, scuffing the paint he so painstakingly layered on. Then it was a true hail of bullets.

Aevar growled, turning to run in a serpentine pattern. Most of the shots turned up the air and snow around him as he sprang left, then right, then back again. He risked a look behind him. On the ridge where he began, standing next to Bjorn, was a team of Long Fangs. Two of them hefted heavy bolters and were raining down fire. His blood ran a little colder when he saw two others bring lascannons to bear. The fifth one was priming a plasma cannon.

“I know the bolts would be live, but this is insane.”

He sprung right, rolling instead of lunging. The air snapped and boiled; two lascannons, lines of brilliant light, lanced over him. The helm darkened automatically to protect his sight, while simultaneously screaming at him. The armor’s back mounted shield generator had spun to life, forcing the beams away, saving him from being bisected by one blast.

“Too damn lucky,” he growled. He had to get to the forest. Then he’d at least break line of sight from the Long Fangs.

The ground exploded and the shield generator burst to life again. Plasma instantly melted the snow around him, throwing him a good meter forward. He pin-wheeled his arms, regaining his balance mid-air. He landed less than gracefully, but never broke stride. The Fangs were good; it was a solid hit from the plasma cannon.

At long last, he finally made it into the forest. The heavy bolters tore into the frozen, nearly petrified wood, turning them into splinters. The lascannons easily sliced through the woods, cutting down rows of trees. The plasma cannon lobbed a miniature sun towards him, but it impacted off of the many branches of the forest, exploding prematurely and showering the area with bits of superheated fluid. The shield generator didn’t bother to activate; the occasional splashes were brushed off by the armor.

Aevar slowed his pace, but kept moving. There were supposed to be combat servitors in the forest, but he couldn’t see where they were. Naturally.

The snow burst around him, and several servitors jumped from their hiding holes, no more than a fathom away. Whoever had hidden them had done a good job. Aevar roared, unloading the wrist-mounted storm bolter at the charging, mindless drones.

They wore simple armor slabs, less elegant than power armor but almost as effective. The bolts bit into the armor, detonating and harmlessly impacting them. Only one was gunned down when the round penetrated deeper than expected. Then they were upon him.

The servitors all had human arms that were heavily augmented; they could easily match a Sky Warrior’s strength. And in those hands they carried axes, swords and knives. They all also had servo-arms that held power fists. They would be a problem.

He ducked away, drawing the power sword and flicking the activation switch. In one smooth motion, he lopped off two arms and half a head, but that didn’t stop the servitors. They parried and ducked away. Two servitors keeping him pressed while the others circled. The swords and knives and axes clattered off the thick armor, but they were aiming for the joints, known weak points in the armor to exploit. Aevar ran another servitor through when he was thrown off his feet with an explosive crunch.

The shield generator had hummed to life yet again, just before the power fist connected with him. He rolled to his feet, storm bolter blazing, and cut down the offending servitor. The others mobbed him, trying to yank the sword from his grasp. Aevar swung and dodged, slicing and cutting the slower husks as if it was nothing. Whoever was controlling them was good, but servitors couldn’t work miracles. They were still slow, and his quickness paid off. Only one servitor made it through his savage counter-attack, landing two glancing blows with its swords.

Aevar head-butted the last servitor, throwing it to the ground. He stepped on it, letting the weight of the armor shatter its spine. He took a moment to breathe deep, then ran onwards. The forest thinned, and he scanned the ridge for the Long Fangs. His helm found them, marking them with runes, but then the runes changed; their weapons were unloaded and hung at rest.

At the top of the ridge stood the Old Wolf. His hand gently rested on the plumb of his axe, the head planted firmly in the ground. He stood there, waiting, completely immobile in his armor.

“Well, who wants to live forever?”

He burst from the woods, running up the steep incline. The servo-motors growled as they amplified his strength, easily pushing the weight of the suit up the slope as he crested the ridge.

“Have to hand it to you,” Logan said. “You finished that run faster than we’d expected.”

“I aim to please.” That got a bark of a laugh from Logan.

“Let’s see how well you please us now.” And with that, Grimnar was on him.

Logan Grimnar might be called the Old Wolf, but he moved faster than any Blood Claw. The axe Morkai swooped high above his head, whistling and splitting the air. Aevar was barely able to bring his borrowed sword to guard, and nearly lost his grip when the axe met it.

Grimnar continued his assault. He swept left, right, and then lunged, pushing Aevar back with frightening ease. Morkai bit into the armor at his shoulders and forearm, slicing and nicking parts of the plasteel like there was nothing there. His helm popped a read-out; his armor was still void-proof.

Aevar countered where he could and maintaining a solid parry. He leapt backwards, getting a few snapshots off with his storm bolter. Logan jumped aside, dodging a portion of the bolts while letting the others glance off his armor. Then he was back in Aevar’s face, growling and roaring.

Morkai bit into his armor, but the shield generator pushed the fell axe’s smile back. Aevar countered, landing a telling blow hard against Logan’s side.

It only made the Old Wolf mad.

Letting loose a savage cry, the High King of Fenris hefted his axe high with two hands and brought it down with armor-splitting strength. Aevar moved to counter, but the old, nearly rusted practice sword snapped under the force, and he fell backwards. Grimnar chased him as Aevar rolled out of the way of each strike, turning killing blows to simple nicks and cuts. The helm tracked the damages, highlighting the armor sections that were in danger of failing.

He might not have had a weapon, but he still had his fists. Aevar jumped to his feed and landed blow after blow on Logan. They didn’t stop the Old Wolf’s assault, but he hoped that he might get lucky, or that Grimnar would remember his last defiance.

Logan’s axe landed on the armor, only to be repulsed by the shield generator. Aevar took the moment to jump in close and land a heavy knee to the Old Wolf’s side. With the heavier, stronger servo-motors to drive the kick, Logan definitely felt it; but he wasn’t slowed by it.

Now good and truly mad, Logan stepped forward, ready to break Aevar like a troublesome foe.

**+That’s enough.+**

Bjorn didn’t talk fast enough, and Logan lashed out one last time. Aevar blocked it with his forearm, connecting with the shaft just below the axe’s smile. He stopped it, but only barely.

**+I think this test was a success.+**

“A success?” That was the Blood Claws venting their rage. They spat at Aevar, hurling insults.

“Aye, that’s a successful test,” Logan said tightly. “Stop your mad barking, he went a solid round with me, and he’s still standing.”

**+The armor holds up just as well as I remember it. Hel, even better than I remember it; the armor I knew of was as slow as petrified shit.+**

“So what do we do now?” Aevar asked, weary of what the future held; Logan might have been stopped, but he still held his axe at the ready.

“Eldest, what is your ruling?” Grimnar asked.

**+The armor is neither full of daemons,+** Bjorn said, walking forward, **+nor is it turning him into some damnable creature. It’s not eating his soul, and his mind is still his. I say we need more of this armor.+**

“You can’t be serious,” Grimnar spat. “This, this _blasphemer_ will damn us all!”

“Mighty Bjorn, you mustn’t order us to do this.” Aevar wasn’t surprised to see Ulrik step forward to try and sway the oldest of them. “If other Chapters see us, they’ll question where we found such relics. And if we tell them of this, this…”

**+Imperial Truth.+**

“Yes, of this Imperial Truth. We’ll be branded heretics and be hunted from the face of the Imperium.”

“The Inquisition doesn’t like us as is,” Logan said. “This would just push them over the edge.”

**+I won’t stand by and let the greatest re-discovery of the Imperium be thrown to the wayside, all because we’ve become a pack of gutless, craven, superstitious cowards!!+** Bjorn bellowed. Ever Grimnar shrunk back. **+This armor had stood up to heavy ordinance, has faced a team of combat servitors and had saved it’s wearer from one of the greatest killers Fenris could ever possibly produce. What more proof do you need that this is our salvation? What could possibly make you realize how important this discovery is? What do you need?+**

The entire Chapter couldn’t answer the Fell-Handed. Even Ulrik, so good with soothing words, was at a loss.

**+Is it because you can’t let it succeed? Is it because of this ‘Creed’ of yours, the ‘faith’ you’re required to have?+** Bjorn sneered. He shook his chassis, clearly trying to shake his head.  **+What have we fallen to? How much further could we possibly degrade ourselves? Dammit all, for once I’m _glad_ that Russ is no longer here! Just seeing what we have become would kill him. To see us be cowed by a book of words, of the threats of old, fat men entire sectors away…Only the Emperor should inspire such fearful obedience. Only him, and _no one_ else.+**

Bjorn looked out on the assembled chapter.

**+You’ll not like him; I don’t expect you to. I expect you to hate him the way you hate a heretic. But you _will_ let him live, and you’ll use the wargear that he makes. Ironclaws, have you found more templates in the Emperor’s library?+**

“Y-yes, Bjorn. A few,” Aevar mumbled, kneeling deep.

**+Just a few?+**

“I wasn’t in the Emperor’s library for long. But I got a few ideas I might be able to work with.”

**+Then work with them. _Blaspheme_ to your heart’s content.+ ** He shot a glare to Grimnar. **+As long as you don’t let the foul warp in, you can do no harm. Do you understand, Grimnar?+**

“I do,” the Old Wolf said through clenched teeth.

**+Good. Then let’s get back to the Aett, we have our old glory to reclaim.+**

* * *

 

Aevar sat in his chambers, staring at the hulking suit of Cataphractii armor that he made. The armor was scored, with cuts and the odd dent here and there. Now it was battle-tested; now it had character.

But what did this mean? He had surely spelled the end of his Chapter; no one else in the Imperium held Bjorn at such a height as they did. No one else would take his word for law; no one would believe him over the High Lords of Terra. What would happen to them now?

Would they be branded renegades? Not since the Heresy has a First Founding Chapter fallen from the grace of the Emperor.

Would they have to face their fellow battle brothers, ones who would follow the Inquisition to the end of the known universe? Maybe those stiff-necked Ultramarines would finally be able to grin, to say that their precious Codex Astrtes is the writ word all should follow. That thought above all made him squirm.

There was a knock at his door, the first in hours. Aevar stood and walked to answer it. Now that Bjorn had made it explicitly clear that his life should not end any earlier than was fated, he could carelessly pull the door open without worrying about catching a bolt to the face.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

“What, did you think I wouldn’t visit?” Helfist said.

“No, I thought the first person I’d see would be Ulrik. Maybe even Arjac.”

“Think they’d try to find wisdom or templates from the Allfather’s library?”

“Possibly. I’m not sure; it was just a stupid bet I made with myself. So, what brings you to the Blasphemer’s chambers?”

“Don’t joke, that’s what everyone’s calling you,” Helfist snapped.

“Does that change what I’ve done?” Aevar laughed.

“No,” Helfist sighed, “I suppose not.”

“So why are you here?”

Helfist turned and gestured. “Come on, no need to be shy.”

 “Thank ya, sire,” a woman said, walking into Aevar’s line of sight. She was a mortal kaerl, with long dark hair and light scars across her face. “An’ beggin’ yer pardon, I ain’t shy.” She said that with a snap, prideful like any Fenrisian.

“You were skulking outside of his line of sight. That sounds like ‘shy’ to me,” Helfist said.

“Me Ma ‘n Pa taught me ta be fearful a th’ Sky Warriors, ta revere ‘em as bringers of death,” the woman said. “I know better ‘n ta guess you’d like ta see a kaerl without askin’ fer us, first.”

“Wise parents. So why bring me a kaerl?” Aevar asked. “Worried I might get lonely down here?”

“No, I asked ta,” the woman said. “Th’ name is Maeva, an’ I’d like ta work fer ya.”

“You know how rarely we use kaerls in the forge, do you?” Aevar asked. “Why should I let you work with me when I can have a team of servitors?”

“’Cus I’ve worked with Iron Priests ‘fore,” Maeva said. “I was a helpin’ hand with Blackmane’s great company. Helped those priests make ‘n mend war gear.”

“Ah, so that’s why your skin is darker than normal; you got a forge tan,” Aevar said. “Been a while since I’ve seen a kaerl blacksmith. Why should I let you help me?”

“I know my way ‘round a forge, I’m good at takin’ instructions, ‘n I won’t get in yer way,” Maeva said. “I was out there on th’ ice with th’ rest a th’ Chapter. I saw wha’ ya built, ‘n I knew I wanted ta make gear as good as tha’. I can’t explain it, but somethin’ drew me in, like ya got some glow about you, yea?”

Slyly, Aevar traded looks with Helfist.

“So I got ‘some glow about me.’ That makes you want to work with me?”

“I know wha’ I saw, ‘n I know wha’ I’m seein’,” Maeva said. Like every Fenrisian, she stood tall as she spoke. “I wanna work with ya, names be damned.”

“Your bravery is exceptional, kaerl,” Helfist said, “but old man Ironclaws here is already in the shit, he doesn’t need any—“

“Show up tomorrow, let’s see how long you last.”

“Oh, thank ya, ya won’t regret this,” Maeva said, a smile barely suppressed.

“Try to get some sleep, I’m working hard tomorrow.”

The Fenrisian woman ran off, a spring in her step. Helfist waited until she was out of earshot before tearing into him.

“Why, in Russ’ name, do you think you might need her?” He demanded. “You want to ruin her life, too?”

“She came here on her own free will,” Aevar said. “Her life is hers to ruin.”

“What could you even possibly use her for? Holding your hammer? Just ask for a team of servitors, or another Iron Priest.”

“Who’d help me?” Aevar laughed. “Bjorn might tell them not to kill me in my sleep, but he can’t make them love me, or get them to tell me what the weather’s like.” He spread his arms wide, a wide grin on his face. “Face it, Helfist, I’m the Blasphemer! I’m surprised I’m still sucking air as it is.”

“So that’s all it’s about?” Helfist hissed. “Taking some kaerl down with you?”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he replied. “I could actually use her. The way I’m doing things, any Iron Priest would just be getting in the way. She’s a blank slate; I’ll need to teach her, aye, but she’ll be open to it. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Said the greybeard.”

“And it nearly killed me. Hel, I _still_ don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how I got that damn thing to work,” he jerked his thumb at the massive Terminator armor that stood behind him. “I had an idea, aye, but I ended up just throwing shit against a wall and somehow it stuck. I’m gonna need to get a lot better to live up to what Bjorn wants me to be. Having a bunch of stuck-in-their-ways Iron Priests will just slow me down.”

“And this whole ‘you’ve got a glow about you’ thing?” Helfist said.

“You said I’ve got a glow about me.”

“Aye, and I’m a druid,” he said. “A trained, sanctioned, _veteran_ druid. If she can talk to spirits like I can, and she’s untrained, daemons might find a way to force themselves upon her.”

“So watch her,” Aevar said. “Don’t worry about her channeling daemons to get to me, I can handle a few daemons.”

“I hope you can,” Helfist said, giving him a hard look. “I hope on Russ’ blood that you can, because this still might tear us apart.”

Aevar’s grin fell a few notches. “Aye, it could.” He looked at the floor, as if the events of the day were suddenly catching up to him. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Anytime, brother,” Vermund said. “So, what do you have planned for your next trick?”

Aevar’s smile returned.

 

* * *

 

There was a knocking at Aevar’s door. He looked up from the pict-scans he took in the Emperor’s library and sniffed. He smelled a leather jacket and a mortal; his new help.

“You’re here early,” he said, opening his door.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, but I wanna get an early start,” Maeva said, a grin barely suppressed. “Say, we not goin’ ta yer personal forge?”

“This _is_ my personal forge,” he replied. “I got a vent straight down to the heart of Fenris. Pick a spot, that’ll be yours. You can start with making a sword.”

“A…sword?”

“Aye, a sword. You know; long pointy thing, got an edge to it?”

“I know wha’ a sword is,” Maeva said, “but is tha’ all ya want me ta do?”

“I need to get an idea of what you’re capable of before I can really push you. Think of this as a test,” Aevar said, going back to his desk. “There’s the forge. You’ve got an anvil, power hammer, lathe, and more tools than you could possibly use. There should be plenty of metal here for you. Let’s see what you make, and we’ll work from there.”

He tapped the servo-skull. It floated up and resumed showing the pict he had last looked at. It was on the creation of basic microprocessors, the logic-engines that drove every piece of tech the Imperium had. It was all lost on Aevar; he had barely understood enough of it to make the ancient armor, and most of that was cannibalized from past suits he made. If he were to make true weapons of war, killing and genocide, he would have to get better.

Across his room, the temperature spiked as Maeva began to work. He studied the pict of the scroll and started building a simple random number generator. Metal kissed metal as the kaerl worked. Aevar ignored her.

He had the schematics for the generator in front of him. Too bad three-quarters of it was moth-eaten, lost to the ages. He could make out some of the bits: the parts needed, the basic flow of logic, but none of it made sense.

He had simple logic gates, integrated chips and proto-boards, so he went to work to try and learn on the fly. He ended up taking it apart and re-made it again and again and again, but nothing came of it. Hours passed and he was no closer to making any progress.

Growling, he tore it all apart and put integrated circuits on the bread board based solely on looks from the ragged pic. If it looked like it was supposed to go in a certain place, he placed it there; the wiring was likewise haphazard. He connected it to the power supply, and stared dumbfounded at the little screen.

The damn thing was working, spitting out random numbers with a press of a button. He put it all together, and had no idea how or why it worked.

“Finished,” Maeva said, exhaustion in her voice.

Picking his jaw from the ground, Aevar looked up. She held a short sword out to him. It was human sized, making it little more than a dagger to him. But it was well made, still warm from the fires of the Aett’s furnace.

He took it, looking it over. The blade was straight, true and balanced, not bad at all for one blacksmith. He flipped the blade, looking for notches or imperfections; he found none. Finally, he gently ran his finger down the killing edge. He felt nothing; the blade had cleanly cut the first layer of skin on his thumb, leaving the second layer unharmed.

“Good blade you made.”

“Thank ya, but beggin’—“ Maeva shut her mouth, almost with an audible snap.

“If you’re going to say something, go on and say it.”

“I’m sorry, but it ain’t appropriate.”

“Oh, shove it, I’m just a glorified blacksmith,” he said.

_Who doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s doing,_ he thought

“Do I look like some snot-nosed son of a chieftain? Stop worshiping the shit that drips from my ass. Now, you were begging my pardon?”

“I was wonderin’ why yer havin’ me make a sword,” Maeva said. “I thought I’d be assistin’ ya, yea?”

“You will be, but I have to see what you can do,” he said. “We both know that talk is cheap; I can better gauge your talents by seeing what you can make.”

“Does it impress ya?”

“Aye. It’s good work for a human. You said you worked with a few other Iron Priests here; did they have you make anything big or special?”

“No, they didn’t let me meddle with th’ machine-spirits; just th’ bodies a servitors,” she said. Aevar could smell it on her; she wanted to do more work than the Priests let her. And it cut at her pride.

“That’s good,” he said, grinning.

“…Good?”

“Didn’t know I had an echo in here. You know what I’m called now, right? The Mechanicus has had several millennia to get a pattern going, for traditions to be made. They have a certain way of doing things, and the work I’ll be doing will fly in the face of those several millennia of patterns, traditions and every single thing they got set up. Every. Single. Thing. What I want is someone who _doesn’t_ have Mechanicus teachings drilled into their heads, who can see things from a new light.”

“But don’t ya have th’ teachin’ a the Mechanicus?” Maeva asked.

“That I do. Which is why I want someone like you even more: a fresh set of eyes can find something mine miss. You’ve got the talent, now let’s see what we can get you to do.”

“So we’ll be doin’ more work tomorrow, yea?” She  smiled.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yea, th’ sun set hours ago.”

“Huh. Didn’t notice.”

“Stayin’ inside this long ain’t good fer anyone, even th’ Allfather’s chosen. Get out a bit, will ya?”

“Fat chance,” Aevar chuckled. “With my new reputation, the Old Wolf put my Company on hearth duty. We’re stuck here until Grimnar decides to let us out to stretch our legs. That means we got nothing but time to work on this and see what we can learn. Get some sleep, Maeva; tomorrow, we start seeing what you can learn.”

_And hopefully I can learn faster than you so you don’t know how much of this shit I’m making up as I go._

 

* * *

 

“I ain’t understandin’ any a this!” Maeva hissed.

“Of course you’re not,” Aevar said. “We’re not banging rocks together, we’re trying to re-create lost technology.”

“How can ya keep yer head ‘bout all this?”

“I’ve had a standard year to get a head start on you. Not to mention centuries of working with the Mechanicus.”

“I thought ya said tha’ ya didn’t need folks with Mechanicus trainin’.”

“I did, but I still have the experience to put this all in context. The flow of the machine-spirit’s blood isn’t like learning about the flow of current or voltage, but they’re similar enough that I can match them up and make heads or tails from it.”

“I need ta get outta this room,” Maeva groaned, one step away from gnashing her teeth. “Stayin’ in here fer months on end just ain’t good, yea? Need ta get outside, see th’ sun. An my bed’s been way too damn cold ‘n empty.”

Aevar had to agree with her. They spent nearly two great months in his chambers, teaching, learning and experimenting with the ancient texts, trying to figure out ways to make the forgotten patterns.

“You’re right,” he said. “The damn shame of it is that the Fell-Handed is getting antsy. Every time I poke my head out, I end up running into him and he asks what I’ve got to show for my work.”

“We ain’t got shit ta show fer it,” Maeva laughed.

“We _do_ have shit, it’s just book shit. Bjorn wants results, things we can hold in our hands.”

“So what’r we gonna do, oh mighty Blasphemer?”

Aevar ground his teeth. Results; Bjorn wanted results. But Aevar couldn’t give him results without first learning what the fuck he was doing.

Then he looked over at the Cataphractii armor that stood in the corner, and he remembered how he made it: flying by the seat of his pants.

“Well, I do my best work when I give up and throw shit together to see what happens,” he said. “How about we make a sword?”

“Another borin’ sword?”

“Fuck no. I got a special sword in mind.”

Aevar walked off, sorting through the printed schematics he made. One of the picts he had was of a Heresy-era sword, a Paragon blade. But the important part of the schematic was lost, kept on rotting parchment. The damn sword needed a generator, and he could barely wrap his head around the needed tech. He set it down in front of Maeva.

 “Ooh, fancy lookin.’”

“That it is,” he said. “Too bad half of its guts are missing.”

“So what’ll we do, eh?”

“We throw shit together and see what sticks,” he said. “Learn as we go and make it up by the seat of our pants.”

“Ah, good ol’ Plan B! Tha’s wha’ I’m talkin’ ‘bout, yea?” Maeva smiled. “Hit th’ metal ‘till shit makes sense. So what’ll fill th’ gaps?”

“Well, it looks like a power sword, and I know how to make one of those in my sleep. But it’s not your average power sword; it’s gotta pack a punch. Kinda like this one.”

He flipped through his list of schematics until he found the one for a force sword.

“See those circuitry patterns?”

“Yea, how could I miss ‘em? Look like frost on glass. Pretty, eh?”

“Those are supposed to be powered by the spirits of Fenris and the fallen heroes buried in it.”

“Mighty strong fer a rune priest, yea?” Maeva said. “So how does it work with this Paragon thingy?”

“Fuck if I know. How about we take the generator from this, stick it in the Paragon blade, kick the power up a few dozen notches and try make it _not_ blow up?”

 

* * *

 

The mead hall, like everything in the Aett, was cut deep into the monstrous mountain. Pelts and trophies of fallen xenos, traitors and daemons hung from massive wooden rafters, and a dozen fires lit the massive hall with dancing shadows and radiant warmth. On the stone walls hung shields, swords, spears and axes from the various clans that Sky Warriors had fought for, prior to their recruitment to the Vlka Fenryika.

Bjorn Stormwolf’s company ate in the warm hall. Normally boisterous, their jarl ate with seething, simmering hate, gnawing at the bones of his meal. His cloudy mood spread over the entire company, from the Long Fangs to the Blood Claws. All ate with painfully reserved silence. Instead of chatter, laughter, shouting and bosting, silence echoed throughout the stone chamber, with the odd tense talk breaking it.

Helfist sighed and took another shot of mjod. Another feast without Ironclaws.

“Greybeard likes to work too hard,” he muttered.

“What was that?” the Stormwolf demanded.

“It’s nothing, my jarl,” Helfist said.

“Better not be,” he growled. “Can’t stand hearing that fucker’s name right now.”

The Claws grunted and mumbled their agreement. A Grey Hunter half-heartedly quieted them.

“Thirteen great months,” the Stormwolf began.

“Oh, for the love of the Allfather, not this again,” Helfist pleaded.

“Thirteen great months,” Bjorn Stormwolf repeated. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice filled the mead hall like he was. “Thirteen great months of sitting on our asses, watching the hearth while all the others are out there, on their own hunts! We’re Sky Warriors, Angels of Death, bringers of ruin and the murder-make. _Stuck. Here_. Minding the damned hearth!”

The Stormwolf pounded the table, rattling cups and spilling drinks. The rowdy Claws bayed, and were half-heartedly silenced by the Hunters. They were all chaffing from Aevar.

“Never done this much sittin’ on my ass,” Bjorn grumbled. “Never in my life.”

Helfist sighed. As a Rune Priest, he was supposed to be the sage council that talked sense to his jarl. He knew what he had to say, and he knew what was going to happen; he had said it many times before. But it had to be said anyways. So he went through the motions.

“But the Fell-Handed says…”

“The Fell-Handed says we need to treat him like some teething infant, suckling a teat!” _Now_ the Stormwolf was yelling. “And the Old Wolf orders us to mind the damned hearth, and everyone treats us like we got the stink of the warp on us. Allied with the Blasphemer at the Fell-Hand’s orders! Not ever Ulrik can keep the scorn out of his voice.”

The Claws roared, nearly drowning out the sound of the mead hall doors opening. The mood instantly shifted as Ironclaws himself walked in.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, waving the attention away. “Just need a word with my jarl.”

“What the Hel do you want, Blasphemer?” the Stormwolf snapped. “Think you can get back in our good graces just by eating with us?”

“With the kill-urge this thick?” Aevar said, sniffing the air. “Damn. It’s nice and heavy now, isn’t it?”

“Go back to you kaerl whore, Blasphemer,” a Grey Hunter yelled. The Blood Claws jumped in, hurling insults at Ironclaws.

“Go back? So you don’t want to go on a hunt?” He asked.

“What?” Helfist said. “What was that?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to go on a hunt,” Aevar said. He walked to the end of the Long Fang’s table and picked at the roasted carcass. “We just got word; a system is in trouble, and we’re the closest ones there.”

“We’re on hearth duty, thanks to you,” the Stormwolf sneered. “Egil Iron Wolf and the Young King are here, they’ll take it for themselves.”

“The Iron Wolf just got back from a hunt against the Dark Eldar, and his company is hurting. Besides, the Fell-Handed is getting very, very anxious. He’s ordering us to take him into the fray, damn any hearth order from Grimnar himself.”

“So what does that mean?” the Stormwolf demanded.

“It means you get to tell the Young King to take over hearth duty,” Helfist grinned.

Bjorn shot a glare at Vermund. Then the massive Space Marine grinned. Then he began to laugh.

“Tell the Young King to mind the hearth?” He roared. “Oh, seven fucking Hels, that’s a good one!”

“Thing is, the Fell-Handed has a demand,” Aevar said.

“And what’s that?”

“I need a few of your Guards,” Ironclaws said, a grin barely suppressed.

The hall fell quiet.

“’A few’ of them,” the Stormwolf repeated.

“Aye, a few.”

“For what?”

“To test what ‘my mortal whore’ and I have been building,” Aevar said. “The Fell-Handed wants to see the fruits of our labors, and what better way that killing xenos?”

That got a grunt of approval from the Long Fangs. Seeing the true greybeards of the Company give their approval quieted the Grey Hunters and Blood Claws. Even the Jarl Guard bowed to the wise heroes.

Helfist realized he was holding his breath; between old man Ironclaws’ sudden appearance and his ‘request’ for some of the Stormwolf’s own Guards, the kill-urge was still thick. If Ironclaws was right about one thing, it’s that everyone wanted his thread cut and his body left for the scavengers.

“Well, who wants to kill a few xenos with the Blasphemer?” the Stormwolf rumbled. “Come on now, don’t jump at it all at once.”

“Don’t do it for me, do it for the Fell-Handed,” Aevar said.

One pack leader, Thorgil, grudgingly stood.

“Stop yer barking, I heard it already,” he rumbled.

“Thank you, brother,” Aevar said, smiling gently.

Thorgil spat at that.

“Stop your messing around and finish eating,” the Stormwolf said. “I want to get as far away from this damned hearth as fast as possible! Come on, there’s a war out there and we’re missing it!!”


	11. Assault on Nebekenezer

The cities of Nebekenezer were a beauty to behold. Each hive city was filled with hundreds of golden, towering buildings. Each was a superstructure of wondrous designs, forged by the tireless priests of the machine-god that resided on the neighboring forge world or Ironghast.

Every city held hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of human lives. The lush garden parks and marble temples were legendary, with pilgrims constantly streaming from all over the sub-sector, even many from the greater sector. Statues of the Emperor and his nameless, faceless, endless champions adorned every vertical space, with new heroes being added to every building every day.

The work to keep the tallies and records of these selfless warriors who made the ultimate sacrifice was as endless as the wars that plagued the Imperium. But they were tirelessly met, with workers carving them into any space they could find.

The city, and the planet, had a scent once; but that was a time before the Imperium took root. Now, with the omnipresent temples and the never-ending pilgrims, the planet smelt like a perpetually lit incense candle. It smelled like the righteous, the pure, the devoted.

It was worlds like Nebekenezer that made the Imperium spin.

That was, of course, before the Ork Waaargh blew into the system.

The towering hive buildings were being reduced to rubble, their golden surfaces tarnished with ash and debris. The beautiful gardens were trampled into mush, and the marble temples bore scars that would make any true servant of the Emperor weep.

The Imperial Guard had dug themselves in and weathered the oncoming assault. Basilisks pounded endlessly, hurling tons of heavy artillery every hour into the advancing green tide, while Leman Russ battle tanks worked to keep the assaulting looted truks at bay. The war machines chugged on endlessly as the Orks sought to violate the sacred world. Guardsmen and women died in near-untold tallies, each sacrificing themselves to save the others. Once the war was over, the Governor of Nebekenezer and the tech priests of  Ironghast would have to build more buildings to add their faces to.

Inquisitor Parsaf stood alone in the crowded, crown temple of Nebekenezer. Once filled with pilgrims groveling in prayer, it was now home to the Guard headquarters. Vox casters and relays shrieked as orders were given and taken. Rubble was pushed aside, set up to provide cover at the entrances and to clear the way for troops. Reports on advances, stalls, and enemy charges were continuously updating a massive map of the area. In green, the marauding Orks; in gold, the forces of the Imperium.

“Filthy xenos,” Parsaf spat. Out on the battlefield, kilometers away, thick, oily clouds billowed up. That either meant that their attacking tank column was destroyed, or the Orks were pushed back.

“Inquisitor, sir, reports are coming in,” a guardsman said, running up to him. “The Orks…they smashed the column. Our men are retreating against them.”

Parsaf hissed. He looked at the map. A guardswoman was updating it, showing the failed attack.

“The damn Orks will push us back to the temple steps,” Parsef said.

“S-sir, what do we do?”

“Let’s hope my asset can hold them long enough for us to bring more men to the area,” Parsef said.

“The Orks will be stalled,” a voice said.

The guardsman jumped as an approaching guardsman walked up. Suddenly, his uniform rippled, changing color and shape. It changed from a the loose olive green patterned flak jacket into a jet-black catsuit.

The man’s face seemed to ripple and change as well, melting and growing blacker and blacker until it turned into a mask, one with the catsuit. Bones seemed to snap and melt, re-shaping themselves into that of a tall, thin woman with a long, flowing red ponytail. The woman carried a sword attached at her wrist, and a strange, green glowing pistol at her belt. Her bones clicked and popped as they assumed their normal shape, and she walked forward with confidence.

“Who in the Emperor’s name is that?” The man stammered.

“Get a hold of yourself, guardsman, she’s one of ours,” Parsef said. He looked up at the approaching assassin. “About time, Geist. Report.”

“Sir,” the assassin saluted. “The leading Nobs are dead. The ranks are breaking down to infighting; they should be held back for an hour.”

“Very good.” Parsef looked her over. Her suit was punctured in a few places. Blood welled out of the wounds. “Are you hurt?”

“This one took a few injuries. She is fine.”

“Get patched up, we’ll need you more as they approach.”

“This one lives to serve.” The woman bowed, then walked away. Her body rippled, bones popped and split, and she melted back into the crowd of soldiers, assuming the shape of an unsuspecting guardsman. Soon she blended into the crowd of soldiers, just another face in the crowd.

“For the love of the Emperor, get a hold of yourself,” Parsef said to the cowering guard.

“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered. “What do we do now?”

“Now?”

Parsef looked at the map. They were being pressed in from all sides. He could pull his squad of Grey Knights from Ironghast ; they were being held in reserve, guarding Archmagos Slithin, who owned the world. But bringing the Knights into the fray was a risk; they were made to combat daemons and Chaos, not Orks. And even if they were effective, most of the world would have to be purged to keep the Knights of Titan a secret.

Once again, that left him with a bad option, and a worse option. Parsef wondered if he was cursed to always choice between what is bad and what is worse. He couldn’t help but chuckle; making that choice was what made him an Inquisitor. He grit his teeth and put on a strong face.

“Now we fight.”

“Sir?”

“The Emperor protects; He would never allow us to die here, in His temple,” Parsef said. A few guardsmen looked up. “We cannot fall here! If we fall, we lose the planet! Do you want the Orks to desecrate this temple? You, guardsman, do you want that?”

“No, sir,” the man said.

“What about you?” Parsef pointed to a guardswoman. “Do you want the Orks to butcher your family in front of the temple?”

“No, sir!” She yelled back.

“What about you, or you? Do you want this city to fall? What about the planet? This sector? No, we stop them here, and we will die trying!”

The soldiers cheered and shouted, their fighting spirit rising. That was good; Parsef knew a lost cause when he saw one. It was bad that a Shrine World were to fall, but worse if the neighboring Forge World were to fall as well.

It was time to choose, and despite the pain of having to abandon this world, he chose the bad over the worse.

“Don’t let them take this place easily,” he said. Parsef turned his back from the battle and strode to the center of the temple, speaking in the most commanding voice he could muster. “Vox casters, pull up teams of storm troopers and Ogryns, I want this place filled with warm bodies! Summon as much armor as you can! Get air support on standby, ready heavy artillery! The Orks will be here soon!”

The guards sprang to their duty, fervor in their step. The air was thick with activity as the guards sprung to their duty. It was the perfect time for Parsef to find Geist and sneak away.

 _Bad or worse,_ he thought. _Bad or worse. That’s all this fucking job is. I’m sick and Throne-damned  tired of it._

He pulled out his small, pocket-sized vox caster.

“Geist, where are you?”

 _This one is in the infirmary, receiving aid,_ she replied.

Parsef walked over to the back of the temple, where a group of Sister hospitallers were tending to the wounded. No one paid him any mind, except for one guardsman who sat attentively at a bed. Fresh gauze pads were applied to his side.

“That you, Geist?” He asked. It was always hard to tell with Callidus assassins.

“It is, sir,” the guardsman replied. Even her voice had changed.

“Good, we need to secure an escape route,” he said in a hushed tone.

“Is this about the safety of the sector?”

“Yes, it is. As loathe as I am to admit it, Ironghast holds more value to the Imperium than Nebekenezer. It must be held from the Orks; we’re needed there.”

“The Orks won’t attack the forge world until they have secured this one, fought and killed everything.”

“Exactly. That gives us at least a week to further prepare. Find a ride, we need to leave.”

“This one lives to serve.”

“Sir! Lord Inquisitor, sir!”

Parsef straightened up. A guardswoman was running towards him.

“We’ve gotten vox communication with Imperial forces,” she said, her face aglow. “It’s the Emperor’s Angels, sir! They’ve heard our plea for help! They’re here!”

The soldier wasn’t quiet with the news. The injured soldiers perked up, spreading the good news the only way guardsmen knew how; scuttlebutt.

“Are they in orbit?” He asked.

“They just dropped out of the warp, sir. They said they’ll be making planet fall soon!”

“Good work soldier,” he said. The soldier grinned, then ran back to her post. Parsef leaned down to Geist. “Get behind enemy lines. We might need their ranks disrupted again.”

“You order, and this one obeys,” Geist said. The disguised assassin stood up and walked out of the temple. By the Emperor, did he love soldiers from Krieg. Obedient to a fault and never, _ever_ questioning their orders. He was already questioning his choices; the last thing he needed was someone _else_ questioning it with him.

Parsef walked back out to the ruined windows of the temple, and looked to the sky. The clouds roiled and burst as drop pods and assault ships plummeted through the atmosphere. He smiled. Maybe this wasn’t such a lost cause at all, thank the Emperor.

 

* * *

 

Thorgil and his fellow Jarl Guards stood by impassively as the Blasphemer and his kaerl whore helped the servitors seal them inside the abominations masquerading as Terminator armor.

“This is a disgrace,” Thorgil said.

“Then why’d ya volunteer?” The kaerl whore challenged as she helped the servitor weld the breastplate shut.

“One doesn’t question the will of the Fell-Handed, _whore_ ,” he spat.

“Wha,’ just ‘whore?’” She said. “I’ve heard tha’ one since I was walking upright on th’ ice. Can’t ya get more creative, like ‘blasphemous whore,’ or ‘warp-worshippin’ whore?’ Or is tha’ too big for ya ta handle?”

That got a laugh from his pack.

“You should address us with more respect, _mortal_ ,” Thorgil said through clenched teeth.

“Let it go, Thorgil, she got you good,” his pack laughed. She did, but he’d never admit it.

“Finished,” Ironclaws said.

“If these things devour our souls, we’ll haunt you forever,” he spat.

“If you want to kill or haunt me, you’d have to get in line,” Ironclaws said. He pulled up a rack of weapons for them to take. On the rack were three brand new swords, an assault cannon and heavy flamer. “Be careful with these swords, they’re sharper than they look.”

“Why only three?”

“That’s all we could make before being called out on this hunt, brother,” Ironclaws said.

“You’re no brother of mine.”

“You’ll change your tune once you use them,” Ironclaws said. “Those of you who don’t get swords and bolters, take the cannon or flamer, and we’ll get you set up with power fists.”

“Better hurry, I’m growing awfully jumpy in this abomination.”

Ironclaws waved him off with a servo-arm. His servo-arms spun around, linking two power fists to the other members of his pack. The rest of them, including Thorgil, grabbed swords.

“There, all done,” Ironclaws said. “Get in the drop pod, we’re launching soon.”

The five guards walked down the ramp, towards the waiting pod. They climbed the ramps and slotted themselves into the braces. The pod clamped down on their armor, securing them in place.

“See you on the surface,” Ironclaws said as the ramps swung up, closing.

“Heretic. Why is he still sucking air?”

“Because the Fell-Hand wants him alive, so stop your ramblings,” Thorgil said.

“You’re taking his side now?”

“If the Fell-Hand wants him alive, he must have a reason. When have you seen Bjorn give the heretic mercy?”

The talk halted, each Guard unwilling to admit that if Ironclaws was a heretic, then saving him made Bjorn a heretic as well. It was much easier to admit that Ironclaws wasn’t a heretic than accept the other conclusion.

 _Launching in ten seconds,_ a vox-channel said.

“Let the hunt begin!”

Their armor, bolted to the drop pod’s frame, held them securely as they were launched towards the planet.

 

_I speak of savages,_

_Big as the mountains!_

_Like flame,_

_Or frosty rime!_  


Thorgil and his pack pounded the sides of the pod, brutally measuring out the tempo of the battle-hymn.

 

_Save the gods,_

_Us against the forces!_

_Never let him unleash_

_This disaster once again!_

 

They hit the atmosphere, and the pod shook. The temperature skyrocketed, but their armor was void-proof; the only indication of the rising temperature were the runes that scrolled across their helms.

 

_I saw rocks burst,_

_I saw heather burning_

_With unending force!_

 

The pod’s retro-thrusters kicked in, and they landed with a thunderous crash. The drop pod’s ramps fell and the bolts that held them in place were released. Following Thorgil, they charged out onto the battlefield.

They had landed in the midst of a column of Orks. Puny boyz and towering nobs screamed at them. As one, the pack raised their guns. The wrist-mounted storm bolters hurled bolt after bolt into the lightly armored green tide.

“Burn, Ork,” one of Thorgil’s brothers said, releasing a gout of fire from his heavy flamer.

The autocannon rotated, spinning up and unleashing a torrent of fire. The orks were cut apart, only to be replaced with even more.

“’Umies!” A massive, towering nob cried. He stood as tall, if not taller, then the outnumbered and outgunned Jarl Guards. “Move, you sods! Crush ‘em! Waaaaargh!!!”

With a massive collective roar, the green tide surged towards the group of five, brandishing knives, brutal swords, and in the nob’s case, a massive power klaw.

“Think you can beat us?” Thorgil said with a snarl. The nob charged him, and he held the Blasphemer’s sword tight. “I swear on Russ’ beard, Blasphemer, if this fails me, I’ll haunt you to the depths of Hel.”

He thumbed the activation trigger on the sword. Electricity raced along the embedded circuitry, making the sword glow brilliant blue, not unlike the power swords that he’d used. The nob raced forward, and Thorgil swung high at his outstretched arms; he was hoping to disarm the ork, rob him of his power klaw.

Instead, the sword sparked and popped. It easily bit through the nob’s arm, slicing it off like it wasn’t there. The sword continued its follow through, and sliced the nob’s head in two, starting at the temple and ending at the jaw, and then through the alien’s second arm. Thorgil had to put more effort into cutting butter.

The nob fell with a hardy thud. It never saw the murderous strike coming. The trailing ork boyz hesitated, seeing their leading nob fall, instantly killed. Thorgil himself stared dumbly at the sword.

“What in the seven Hels is this thing?”

That would have to wait; there were orks to kill.

“Green-skinned cravens!” He laughed, charging forward. His armor carried him forward faster than he would expect; Terminator armor was supposed to be slow and sluggish, but he launched forward like he was wearing simple power armor. The orks returned his roar, but with much less intensity.

Orks were strong and tough, but slow. Thorgil lashed out, cutting down four orks before they could even bring their weapons up. He looked to his pack, and saw them easily butchering the orks before they could strike.

The orks hit back, but the Guard sprung back, parrying blades and letting others slide off the thick plates of armor. The air split as his two pack mates crushed the boys with their power fists, shattering bones with ease.

“Run!” A cowardly ork screamed. “Let’s git outta here!”

“Oh, no you don’t!”

The orks tried to run, only to die with a bolt in their back, or a blade at their throats. Twenty orks had charged, but none had survived.

“I haven’t moved this fast since I was a Grey Hunter,” one Guard laughed, cutting down an ork with ease. His laughter died in his throat as a team of orks formed ranks a dozen meters from them. They all carried heavy rocket launchers, and were aiming dead at them.

“I’ll save a spot for you in Valhalla, brothers,” Thorgil bellowed as the orks fired. A barrage of rockets streaked towards them as they prepared themselves to meet the Allfather. Rocket after rocket exploded, shaking the ground and throwing up dirt and shrapnel, each explosion rattling their very bones.

Thorgil blinked. His suit’s refractor shield shone a dull blue, standing out in stark contrast to the rubble-strewn ground. Not a single rocket penetrated the shields. The orks stared, mouths agape. Thorgil and his pack mates looked to each other, equally shocked to have survived.

His brother armed with the autocannon came to his senses first. The cannon spun, cutting down two orks. The rest followed suit, opening fire as they charged forward.

Panicking, the orks tried to reload, stuffing ill-fitting rockets into the barely bolted together launchers, but were gunned down before they could finish. Those that did found themselves facing a charge from the five Guards.

“Alright, _maybe_ that Blasphemer can make some good armor.”

 

* * *

 

“Enjoy your first time off-planet?” Helfist said. The Blood Claws roared, making the hold of the Land Raider feel five times smaller than it was. “Good, ‘cus you ain’t getting off without a little bit of blood on you.”

The tank shook as the Thunderhawk decoupled, letting the Land Raider fall a meter to the ground. Helfist rocked with the movements, staying on his feet.

“Moving out, brothers,” the driver said. “Hope you like orks, ‘cus there’s a lot of them out there.”

“Hear that? Plenty of xenos to kill,” Helfist grinned. The Claws roared again. All but Wight. Helfist kept his eye on the silent Claw. Ever since he knocked him upside the head, he wasn’t mouthy anymore; he was damn near mute. Maybe he did hit him a little too hard.

Helfist shrugged his shoulders and slid his helm on, blink-clicking the activation runes away. At least he didn’t have to deal with another cocky Claw mouthing off all the damned time.

“Incoming fire. Might want to hold onto something,” the driver said.

Helfist wasn’t about to fall flat on his face in front of the Claws, so he grabbed a handhold. A few young ones didn’t, thinking they were above a simple shake, and were knocked off their feet as the Land Raider was hit with fire. Their brothers laughed, calling them names as they helped them to their feet.

“Twenty seconds until your reckoning,” the driver laughed. Above them, the autocannon spewed out fire, and the side mounted lascannons roared.

“Remember what we’ve been telling you,” Helfist said, making his way to the front ramp. “Stay together, watch you brothers and they’ll watch you. And don’t forget, orks are tough. Hit them twice to get them to stay down once.”

“Here’s your stop. Unleash Hel upon the orks!”

The ramp dropped and Helfist charged out, bolt pistol in hand. His runic axe was secured across his back, mag-locked for when he needed it. If the orks were worthy enough foes, then they’d get to taste it.

The Blood Claws surged past him, screaming and howling at the top of their lungs, bolt pistols chattering as they shot, barely aiming, at the group of orks ahead of them.

There had to be easily twenty orks, roaring back at the blood-thirsty Claws. They hit the orks with bone-crunching intensity, chainswords grinding against ork flesh and armor. Helfist picked his targets, putting bolts into heads with ease. The mass-reactive rounds exploded moments after burying themselves in the orks, showering him, Blood Claws, and other orks in brain matter.

From the front of the pack came a massive roar. A large nob strode forward, holding a massive two-handed weapon, a cross between an axe and a hammer.

“You lot ain’t worth anything!” It bellowed. Then it saw Helfist. “You! I’ll crush your skull and wear it as a trophy! Git over here!”

Vermund sized the charging nob up in an instant. The ork was becoming big enough to challenge the reigning warboss in the coming months. It looked like it could handle everything he had. He grinned, looking forward to a good old fashioned, knock-down, drag out fight.

He whispered a quick litany, summoning the powers of Fenris’ past heroes. Their power surged within him, coursing through his veins. Vermund could feel it taking hold of his bones, turning them into hunks of adamantium. His muscles burst with the power and strength of iron, and his skin felt neigh unbreakable. Truly, Fenris had the greatest heroes in all of humanity.

The nob screamed, raising his bludgeon high above his head, but Helfist was faster. He darted in close, minding his form. With his blessing nearly doubling his already super-human strength, he lashed out with everything he had, landing a punch in the dead middle of the nob’s jaw.

Its skull was instantly and utterly caved in.  Teeth went flying, and the nob collapsed mid-roar, hitting the ground hard. Helfist looked at his fist; another thick layer of blood coated it, adding to the collection of blood that stained the armor.

“Guess you couldn’t take it, huh? Anyone need their wet nurse?”

The Blood Claws were screaming in a mad frenzy. Helfist looked up; he could taste the raw anger and kill-urge, the bloodlust and the senseless rage. Ahead, towards the front of the pack, was Wight. He was mindlessly hacking at the few remaining orks. Just behind him were the bodies of two dead Claws. One had taken the smile of a rough ork axe to his head; the damned fool didn’t care enough to wear his helmet. The other was stabbed several times over, most in the back; he had been a damn fool to think the orks were easy to kill, and moved on before they were truly dead.

“Wight,” Helfist snarled, pushing his way to the front. Wight didn’t scream or yell like the others. He just had a deep hiss coming from his mouth. “Wight!”

Helfist grabbed the young Claw and pulled him back.

“I think you killed those orks well enough.”

Even though Wight was wearing his helmet, Helfist could tell that the Claw was glaring at him. Then Wight looked to the dead orks, and back to his fallen brothers.

“Now do you know why we train you raw and bloody?” Helfist said, looking each Blood Claw in the eye. “Now do you know why all this is necessary? The Trail of Morkai made you stronger then steel, tougher than the frozen ocean, faster than a thunderwolf, and it _still_ doesn’t mean shit out here!”

The Blood Claws fell silent, quietly mourning the dead.

“You were hot shit out on the ice,” Helfist continued, “but that hot shit isn’t worth anything now. You’re in the big, bad galaxy, and you’ll be chewed up and spat out before you even knew you’re dead. That’s what all the training is for. That’s why we push you harder than anything you’ve experienced. That’s why we tell you to knock all the bone-headed shit off. To keep you from ending up like these brainless bastards!”

He pointed to the fallen Claws. Vermund knew he was rubbing it in deep, but the Claws had to learn. Pain was the greatest teacher, but all the pain in the galaxy couldn’t help an idiot. It had to be directed, the fool told what he did wrong, and then maybe next time he’ll know better.

“Better get used to this,” he said. “This is the first of an endless number of battles. Think you’re better then that threadless lot? You’d better prove it. Now, move out, there’s still orks to kill.”

He made a quick note of where the bodies were. A priest would have to come through and take the Chapter’s dues, and if old man Ironclaws wasn’t busy, he’d cut the corpses from the armor.

The Blood Claws were a step behind him, venting their frustration and anger. All but Wight, who stayed as quiet as the dead. Maybe he hit the Blood Claw too hard.

 

* * *

 

 **+At last,+** the Fell-Handed said, trotting along on broken ground, **+back to war.+**

“Miss the smell of it,” Aevar said, breaking deep. Despite the efforts of his helmet’s filters, it couldn’t scrub the scent of death and destruction from the air. Damn, did he miss this. His hand traced a pattern on Iounn, his bolt pistol, and Katla rattled from her lock on his back.

 **+Aye, that we all do,+** Bjorn said. His helfrost cannon spun up, freezing the air around it before launching a cryo-blast in the air. It drifted and fell among a group of orks dozens of meters away. **+Have to say, this trip through the warp was damned quick.+**

It exploded, flash-freezing all it touched. The orks screamed, then stopped as they were suddenly brought down to absolute-zero.

“According to my Jarl, I’m apparently a lucky warp charm,” Aevar said. “The second I left to work on Terra, they started taking months to travel, as opposed to weeks or days.”

**+All the fekking better.+**

“Aye, all the fekking better,” Aevar said. “You safe back there?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” Maeva said a few paces away. “Just a crazy mortal whore followin’ ya along. Nothin’ could possibly happen ta me, yea?”

“Don’t tempt fate.”

“I’m joking, right? Makin’ a funny ‘ha-ha’ thin’ outta it.”

“I mean don’t tempt me to make it come true. I’d appreciate the silence that much more.”

Maeva looked at him, then saw his shoulders shake as he laughed; she was getting better at realizing when she was being toyed with. She groaned.

“You see the Jarl Guard out there?” Aevar asked Bjorn. “Pod says they made planet fall a minute ago.”

 **+I see them,+** the Fell-Handed said. **+They’re cutting a bloody swath through the orks.+**

“Hm. Guess that shit works, then.”

**+You doubted yourself?+**

“No, just glad it all came together,” he said. “I’d hate to be haunted by a team of pissed-off Guards.”

In his helmet, a vox channel opened. His Jarl, the Stormwolf, wanted to talk.

_Ironclaws, you still sucking air?_

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He laughed. “Think a few orks would be able to put me down?”

_You never know with the damned things. They get an idea in their tiny little heads, it’s almost impossible to stop them._

“Don’t you worry about me, I can handle a few orks.”

_How about a few hundred? There’s plenty more to go around._

“My Jarl is too kind.”

 _Ha! No Fenrisian should be denied a good battle!_ He roared. _See that temple in the distance? I’m there with my team. Apparently it’s the big temple on the planet, and the guard are holed up in here. They could use your help setting up barricades and the like._

“We’re on our way.”

 _And have the Fell-Handed come, there’s an Inquisitor here that I can’t deal with,_ he spat. _Need to kill some orks just to get the taste out of my mouth._

“Just what we needed.”

_So guess who’s problem this Inquisitor is now?_

“My Jarl is punishing me.”

_That’s the idea, Ironclaws. You kept us all grounded in the Aett for over a year, this is how you repay us._

“I recognize my failings and will be sure to correct them,” he sighed.

 _Good!_ Aevar could hear a team of bikes roaring to life in the background, and the deep roar of a Land Raider. _Now we’re gonna find more orks to kill!_

He cut the vox channel off and looked up to Bjorn.

“My Jarl demands that we reinforce the temple over there,” he said. “There’s a team of guard stationed there, along with an Inquisitor.”

**+Very well.+**

“Bjorn, please, you must keep your peace about the Truth, and the things that I have made,” Aevar said. “The Inquisition is one step away from declaring us traitors as is. We can’t risk getting on their bad side.”

 **+Aye. I remember those Months of Shame all too well,+** Bjorn said. He turned, beginning the march towards the temple. **+As long as that Inquisitor keeps to himself and doesn’t burn the veteran guardsmen for spreading ‘heresy,’ he’ll live.+**

“Move out!” Aevar yelled to the squadrons of war machines. “The Stormwolf wants us to reinforce the temple!”

The Whirlwind and Vindicares idle chugging turned to a low-pitched growl as engines were engaged and the heavily armored weapons began to move. The ground was turned up as the treads bit into the dirt and broken roadways. A few Predators took their spot at the head of the column, ready to face and destroy any ork that came between them.

“What’s th’ plan?” Maeva asked, jogging alongside Aevar and Bjorn. “We gonna get those guards up ‘n runnin’ again?”

“Aye, that’s the idea of it.”

“An’ wha’ of this Inquisitor? He do anythin’ ta ya?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, for one thin’, you spittin’ his name out like he fekked yer Ma’s corpse.”

“We don’t like the Inquisition much.”

“How so?”

 **+The Months of Shame,+** Bjorn said. **+It nearly brought us to blows with the entire Imperium.+**

“Beggin’ yer pardon, but wha’ are these ‘Months of Shame?’”

**+Are you familiar with our history?+**

“Me Ma ‘n Pa taught me everythin’ they knew ‘bout ya. Had some gaps in it though, yea?”

**+Do you know of the War of Armageddon?+**

“Now tha’ I do. Fenrisians always remember a fight. You kicked tha’ Angron an’ his traitors in th’ jewels, right back inta th’ warp.”

“Do you know what happened afterwards?”

“Not much, but I guess it’s where this Inquisition comes in?”

“Aye, that it does,” Aevar said. “With Armageddon burning from the chaos incursion, the Inquisition was afraid that small bands of heretics had infiltrated the survivor’s camps, and were lying low, getting ready to spread their heresy when the time was right.”

“Seems like right good thinkin.’”

“Oh, that it was. It was such good thinking that they rounded all the survivors, anyone who knew anything about chaos. They threw ‘em into camps, sterilized them, and began working them to death,” Aevar spat. “Within the week, new citizens were brought in to repopulate the world.”

“They did wha’ now?”

 **+The spineless cowards. We were furious,+** Bjorn said. **+Any Fenrisian would be.+**

“Gutless assholes…”

“So Grimnar, the Great Wolf, fought them,” Aevar said. “Attacked the Inquisition ships and rescued as many survivors as he could.”

“Were ya with him?”

“Not personally, but I was with the attacking party,” he said. “The Inquisition wanted to speak after that, come to terms. But they were worse than cowards; they attacked us under the banner of truce and treaty. It destroyed one of our ships and crippled others. By then, it was a fight.”

“Bet ya kicked their asses from here ta Terra.”

“If only,” Aevar chuckled. “We were to secure the survivors first, so after teleporting aboard the Inquisitor’s ships, killing a few Grey Knights, we left, went to helping the survivors escape.”

**+And the Inquisition marched on Fenris. They thought they could force us to kneel, take a crusade of penance.+**

“Hold on now, every Sky Warrior says tha’ no one breached th’ Aett in millennia.”

“They didn’t,” Aevar grinned. “If they wanted war, we gave ‘em war. Beat a damn quick path back and stalled their attack, boarded their ships and killed as many as we could.”

 **+But it had to end,+** Bjorn said. **+The Inquisition couldn’t keep attacking a First Founding chapter with baseless accusations, and we couldn’t hold their forces off.+**

“So wha’ happened?”

“We stopped kicking their asses, that’s what,” Aevar said. “The Inquisition backed off and we stayed away from them. They’re still butt hurt about the whole ordeal, which is why this might make working with an Inquisitor all the more difficult.”

“If he thinks he can pull th’ same shit, he’s got ‘nother thin’ comin’,” Maeva growled.

 **+You’ll hold your tongue in front of the Inquisitor,+** Bjorn barked. **+We don’t need to open old wounds while they’re still orks threatening us all.+**

“Sure, I mean, yes, mighty Bjorn,” she stammered.

 **+Enough with this ‘mighty’ business,+** Bjorn said. **+I’m sick of all that shit.+**

The temple loomed overheard, marble pillars struggling to support the weight of it all. Guardsmen and women were there to greet them; they were all cheering and yelling their thanks, support and praise.

_“The Emperor’s Angels are here to safe us!”_

_“Kill the damned orks!”_

Aevar raised his hand for the tanks to stop, but the crowd took it for a sign of gratitude and cheered even louder.

“Careful there, they might think yer th’ jarl,” Maeva laughed.

Aevar rolled his eyes and turned to the tanks.

 _Set up a parameter,_ he ordered on the vox channel. _Predators, spread out and brace for a counter-attack. Whirlwinds, form a line by the steps. Vindicators, get ready to support the Predators as they become engaged._

 _Sure thing,_ Blasphemer, one driver spat.

Despite the bickering, the tanks moved to their positions. Bjorn watched impassively.

 _“Space Wolves. Just great,”_ said a voice in High Gothic.

Aevar turned to the temple. Walking towards them was the Inquisitor that the Stormwolf had mentioned. He wore the typical black leather trench coat of his station, with the Inquisition medallion swinging from a long neck chain. His worn knee-high boots had seen better days, but it was obvious that the Inquisitor paid them good care; they were worn, but not worn out.

The Inquisitor had brownish skin, but Aevar couldn’t tell if it was from his place of birth, or from the omnipresent cloud of dirt that hung around the battlefield. An inferno pistol sat in a holster at his hip, as did a power sword.

 _“Well met, Inquisitor,”_ he said, doing his best to keep his voice level, and speaking in High Gothic.

 ** _+We’re here to assist you,+_** Bjorn said.

 _“I can see that,”_ the Inquisitor said. _“I’m Inquisitor Parsef.”_

_“I am Aevar Ironclaws of the Vlka Fenryka. This is my kaerl assistant, Maeva.”_

_“An honor, milord,”_ she said in fractured High Gothic.

**_+I am Bjorn. Tell us, what’s the state of your Guardsmen?+_ **

_“Come in, I’ll bring you into the fold,”_ Parsef said.

They approached the temple, and Parsef turned around.

 _“You’d have to wait outside,”_ he said to Bjorn.

**_+I beg your pardon?+_ **

_“You are an honored warrior of the Space Marines, but we will be planning tactics, attacks and retreats.”_

_“Inquisitor, this is Bjorn,”_ Aevar said, doing his best to keep a snarl out of his voice.

_“Yes, as he said.”_

**_\+ Do not treat me as some simple marine,+_ ** Bjorn said. **_+I’ve planned countless assaults and defenses. Let me help with this little scrape.+_**

_“’Little?’ This is a full-blown ork Waargh.”_

**_+It’s a little one, barely worth our full attention. I’ve seen what the green skins can do en mass, and this is hardly more than a splinter faction.+_ **

Parsef gave Bjorn a hard look.

 _“If you don’t want our help, we’ll be on our way, then,”_ Aevar said, turning around.

He could hear the Inquisitor groan before calling back out to him.

_“Wait. You just want to have your dreadnaught accompany us inside?”_

**_+I’m here to help.+_ **

_“Very well,”_ Parsef said, gnashing his teeth. _“The temple should be big enough to accommodate him.”_

“Asshole,” Maeva whispered, reverting back to Juvik.

“Keep your tongue in your head or I’ll remove it,” Aevar said calmly.

“Oy, I need my tongue! Got plenty a things ta do with it, yea?”

“Then hold it yourself, or I’ll hold it for you.” Maeva scoffed, but held her peace. “They hate us as much as we hate them, and we don’t need to be fighting the Inquisition alongside the green skins, no matter how small this Waargh is.”

They followed the Inquisitor into the temple, guardswoman and men staring open-mouthed as they made way for them and Bjorn; many fell to their knees. Bjorn’s heavy dreadnaught footfalls echoed in the massive temple, threatening to crack the marble floor.

 _“There was another Space Wolf here,”_ Parsef said as they walked. _“A big one, surrounded by bikes. Was he your thrall?”_

 _“He was our_ lord, _”_ Aevar said. Maeva reacted to Parsef’s tone, but Aevar restrained her by placing a heavy hand on her shoulder.

_“Your…lord?”_

**_+We prefer to face our foes head on, not from behind the comforts of a barricade like some Chapters do.+_ **

_“Yes, I see,”_ Parsef said. He took them to a massive board that held a map of the area. There was green surrounding the entire map. While Aevar could barely pick out a few landmarks, he knew that the green were the orks, and that they were surrounding them.

_“As you can see, we’re up to our eyes in orks.”_

_“That just means they can’t get away from us,”_ Aevar grinned.

 _“Quite,”_ Parsef said drily. _“They’ve got a heavy force of armor. Anything we’ve sent out has been ripped to shreds or captured and send back against us.”_

Bjorn took another step forward, examining the map.

**_+Was a warboss sighted?+_ **

_“No, not yet. Although there have been massive battle wagons that have been sighted further out.”_

**_+Interesting. Warbosses are usually spotted by now.+_ **

_“Is this the newest data that we have?”_ Aevar asked.

_“Of course, it’s only a few minutes old.”_

_“Do we have any scouts in the field? The Stormwolf doesn’t see much use for them in his maneuvers.”_

_“Don’t worry, I have an asset in the field.”_

_“Who’s this asset?”_

_“An assassin,”_ Parsef grinned.

**_+If it isn’t Grey Knights, it’s assassins.+_ **

_“And you know of the Knights of Titan how?”_ Parsef asked, his eyes narrowing.

 _“We never let a good grudge go,”_ Aevar said. _“We all still remember Armageddon.”_

_“I see.”_

_“How safe is this assassin?”_

_“She’s safe and sound, don’t you worry about her. Tell me what your plan is; we can use her to amplify your counter-attack.”_

_“Aye, there’s an idea,”_ Aevar said. He looked to the map. _“Is this an ork tank column? We could have your ‘asset’ take out a few nobs or ranking orks. While they slug it out over who’s going to lead them, we can charge in and break them.”_

_“That column is nowhere near us. We need to hold the line at the temple, not overextend ourselves.”_

**_+If we attack the column and destroy it, it’ll draw the orks away from the temple,+_ ** Bjorn said. **_+Orks are simple-minded; give them a fight, and they’ll flock to it like moths to a flame. Move that fight away from you, and they’ll follow it.+_**

 _“Interesting,”_ Parsef said. _“And what would happen should the orks not be drawn away?”_

 _“Then this’ll be a very short fight,”_ Aevar said. _“Keep your guards ready to repel any orks, and get your ‘asset’ ready to work. We’ll send our teams out to match them.”_

Parsef nodded curtly, and Aevar turned away, looking at the guards. They were all grinning, happy to be alive and to have Space Marines with them. But the state of their temple was in utter disarray.

 _“You could use some work around here,”_ he said loudly. _“Maeva, you’re with me. We’re getting this place into fighting shape until the Stormwolf smashes that column apart.”_

_“Wha’, me? Don’t we have weapons an’ tanks ta tend ta, yea?”_

_“Bah, they could wait a little. We’ve had time to tinker with them on our way out here that they should run like a sled on smooth ice. No, we’ll be getting this place ready to stand an assault.”_

_“Can’t we go ‘n mess with th’ tanks more?”_

_“Tough shit, kaerl. Our work is here.”_

**+You work with the guards,+** Bjorn said in Juvki. **+I’ll be planning the assault with Little Bjorn.+**

“’Little?’ Ha! He’ll get a kick outta _that_ name!” Aevar laughed.

 

* * *

 

“Oy! Where you gitz runnin’?”

 “Them ‘ummies are out there, killin’ us!”

“Stop that runnin’!”

The massive nob backhanded the smaller ork boy, sending him spinning. Eventually, the fleeing mob of boys came to a stop.

“You runnin’ from a scrap? What kinda orks are ye?” The nob snarled, showing off several broken teeth. “You want the Shivver to see you runnin’? He’ll kill you faster ‘n Mork could hit you!”

“B-but them ‘ummies are tough ‘n scary,” the ork mumbled. “Saw ‘em take a full blastin’ from da tank bustas, ‘n they were still standin’ strong. They cut ‘em down ‘fore they could blast ‘em again!”

“So you ran from dem?” The nob roared.

“Quiet, you,” said an ork from behind the nob. He appeared out of nowhere; it was as if he stepped out of the shadows. The ork was big, not bigger than the nob, but still large, and covered with tattered purple clothing. A long, jagged scar ran down the side of his head to his neck; he carried two massive daggers at his side, with tubes running from the hilts to a strange pack on his back. The nob jumped, spinning around and falling to the ground all in one leap.

“Sorry, Shivver,” he mumbled.

The orks stared at Shivver. The only sound was of his boots hitting the dirt, and a necklace of massive teeth jingling from his neck.

“Y-you the Shivvers?” The small boy asked.

“That be me,” the ork growled.

“Wha, you? Shivvers? Thought Shivvers was the biggest ‘n baddest ork around, that he was the one who beat Bigklaw fer the warboss spot.”

“Don’t need to be big when I’m the baddest,” Shivvers said. “Them big orks just like to puff der chests out, braggin’ and all.”

“You ain’t that big,” the boy laughed. “Bigklaw was bigger than you!”

“An’ look where that got him,” Shivvers snarled, pulling at the necklace that hung around his neck. The ork got a better view of it, and saw that the teeth on it were bigger that the teeth of a nob. They were the biggest teeth they’ve ever seen. “All that’s left ‘o Bigklaw are his big teef. An’ I’m the one with dem around me neck, so that makes me the baddest ork there is around here, you stupid gitz got that?”

“Yea, yea, whatever ya say,” the ork bumbled, jumping back.

“You stinkin’ boys think you need to be kunningly brutal to be da boss,” Shivvers spat. “Bigklaw was kunningly brutal, but it didn’t do him one lick of good! But me, I’m _brutally kunning,_ an’ I’m the boss now, you got it?”

“I got it, Shivvers,” the boy wailed.

“Good! Now what’s this nonsence about runnin’ from ‘ummies? You ain’t no ork if you run.”

The surrounding orks mumbled in agreement. What kind of ork ran from a fight?

“B-b-b-b-b—“

“B-b-b-b-but what?” Shivvers demanded, mocking the smaller ork.

“But they’s tough. We tried to hit ‘em, but they just took it all. They’s tough, too tough.”

The orks grumbled, but shrugged their shoulders and agreed. What’s the point of hittin’ someone if they didn’t get hurt?

“You empty-headed gitz!” Shivvers smashed the ork, sending him flying. Then he rounded on the others. “You spend too much time followin’ Grok when you should be followin’ Mork! Grok hits you hard when you look at ‘im, right?”

The orks snorted and nodded. Every ork knew that. Every ork wanted to be Grok.

“Well, guess what, Mork hits you ‘ARDER when you DON’T see ‘im! An’ that’s what makes me the baddest ork in this band! I hit you harder when you don’t see me!” Shivvers grabbed the necklace of teeth again, rattling them like a totem. “That’s how I got Bigklaw’s teef. That’s how I got these nobs to say I’m the baddest. That’s how I put this Waaargh together, and that’s how I’m smashin’ these ‘ummies ‘fore they can get their damn tanks out. Look out there, tell me how many tanks ‘n trucks we looted. How many?”

“A whole lot,” some orks said.

“That’s right, a whole lot. And we’ll be gettin’ more tanks ‘n trucks, all ‘cus I’m brutally kunnin’ an’ not kunnin’ly brutal. You gitz get that?”

The orks roared.

“You wanna get those shiny bitz from dem ‘ummies?”

“Yea!”

“You wanna go out ‘n beat the snot outta dem?”

“Yea!”

“Then leave th’ kunnin’ to me ‘n get out there an’ smash heads! Get yer brutal on!”

The tide of orks roared, yelling for blood and a proper Waaargh! With the nob at the head of the mob, they charged back out into the unfolding battlefield. Only Shivvers remained, and a group of orks that had hung back from the group. Most wore purple colored clothing, and all carried knives and daggers.

“Well, what you lot waitin’ for?” Shivvers snapped. “They’re bringin’ the brutal, we got tha kunnin’ to do. Come on, let’s give those ‘ummies a surprise.”

Following their kommando, the purple-covered orks faded away into the debris, stalking closer and closer to the back lines.


	12. Assault on Nebekenezer

The ground was rough, split and uneven. Despite the rocks and uneven roads, the massive tires of the bikes rumbled over it all without losing their pace. The Land Raider followed, oblivious to any minor bumps.

_Stormwolf, you there?_ Aevar asked on the vox.

“Aye, we’re here,” Bjorn said. He stuck his head out of a hatch, gazing out on the destruction and debris. “You and the Fell-Handed get an idea of what’s going on?”

_We’ve got a good enough idea,_ Ironclaws said. _Bjorn said that we should stage a raid on a tank column, pull the orks away from the temple to give the Guard room to breathe._

“So a straight punch to the face,” he said. “I like it!”

_Also, the Fell-Handed is calling you ‘Little Bjorn’ now._

White hot rage lanced through the Stormwolf’s veins, but only for a second. Bjorn tilted his head back and roared in laughter.

“Tell him he’d better be damn glad he’s the Fell-Handed. Anyone else, and I’d have to break them!”

_Done and done, my little jarl,_ Ironclaws laughed.

“Don’t you start now,” he snapped.

_No guarantees,_ Ironclaws said. _Good hunting._

Bjorn closed the hatch, turning to his pack of guards.

“Get ready, we’re bringing the war to the orks,” he ordered.

“As you wish,” one brother said. “Little Bjorn.”

The Guards couldn’t hide their laughter. Some stood straight, holding a deadly serious look in their face, but their lips tugged at the corners, threatening to spill over. Others outright slapped their knees as they laughed. Suddenly the white hot rage was back in his veins.

Ironclaws had spoken on an open vox channel. Everyone had heard it.

“Anyone caught calling me that’ll be left on this planet when we’re done,” he roared.

“We understand,” his guard said. “Little Bjorn.”

His teeth ground, threatening to snap under the intense pressure his jaw was exerting on them.

“Damn that Ironclaws!”

 

* * *

 

“Oy! Hear that?”

The mob of boys ground to a halt.

“Hear wha?”

“That sounds like a trukk,” the leading nob said. “Get out from those rubbles, you gitz. We gonna take some trukk for us.”

The orks laughed, bringing their ramshackle guns to bear. All but one ork.

“Oy! You there! Get yer gun ready!” The nob roared.

Skin rolled and boiled, bones knitted and popped. Suddenly the ork wasn’t an ork, but a lithe human woman wearing all black.

“What the…?”

She leapt forward, bringing a strange gun to bear. Electricity arced, hitting the boys en masse. Orks screamed as their brains were fried, burned to cinders in the blink of an eye.

“You little shit!” The nob roared, charging the woman.

The world tilted, spun, and finally came to a halt. The nob blinked, trying to speak but he couldn’t. The ground shook as his body hit the dirt. His eyes bulged as he saw his neck, cleanly severed, gushing blood. He couldn’t understand it; all he did was blink. Was this the power of Mork that Shivvers was always talkin’ about?

“Run! She killed a nob!”

The puny ork boys lost their nerve and fled. The assassin let them.

“Squad broken,” she said into a vox-caster. “This one is moving to the next target.”

She flicked her wrist-mounted blade, throwing the bits of foul ork blood free, then gave herself another injection of the polymorph drug. Her body shifted, popping into place, and her skin rolled. Soon she was just another random ork, running away.

She followed the trailing orks, sprinting to embed herself into their number. Her target was out there. Maybe she’ll find her death as well, and finally atonement for all her sins.

Most assassins found passing as a xenos, even being _among_ xenos, as a filthy, disgusting business. But Geist, a Krieg woman, found that living was a disgusting affront to the Emperor Himself; the act of breathing was filthy to her. She had to atone for the sins of her forbearers, the sin of turning from the Emperor’s light, and only death could ease that burden. Assuming a xenos form was nothing to her.

The group of orks ran until they came upon the targeted tank column.

“What you runnin’ from?” Another nob bellowed. “Shivvers wants us to take ‘em trukks headin’ our way! Stop running!”

He laid into the retreating orks, knocking them aside with his enormous strength. Seeing the larger ork, order was slowly becoming restored. That had to change.

“Come on, you gitz. What you runnin’ from?”

“They are running from this one,” the assassin said, the polymorph drug changing her form in an instant. This time, the nob was able to see her attacks coming.

 

* * *

 

The heavy bolter was thrown from its tripod, nearly breaking the feed. Aevar sighed and mentally moved his servo arms, pulling at the bent metal.

“Right there?” Maeva asked, looking into the crack in the gun.

“Yup, that’s the firing pin.”

“Looks pretty bent, eh?” She reached in and pulled the destroyed component out. “Might as well use it fer holdin’ up hair.”

“You gonna keep talking?”

“Hey, ya give me a hard time ‘bout cuttin’ my thread an’ takin’ my tongue, I’ll give ya a hard time back. M’lord.”

“Why did I ever tell you to speak your mind?”

“’Cus ya like it,” Maeva grinned, then handed the bent pin over. Aevar took it with his servo-claw, pulled it straight, then gave it back. She replaced the frail little part, and Aevar pushed the metal back into place, spot-welding as he went. He fed the ammo belt back in, primed the gun and pulled the trigger. A short burst echoed in the temple.

“We’re getting’ pretty good at this, yea?” Maeva said.

“I’ve _been_ good at this,” he said. “You’re picking up, though.”

“Tha’s wha’ I meant.” She deftly attached the tripod and gave it back to a guardsman. “Fixin’ guns is pretty easy. Better ‘n gettin’ this ‘forgotten tech’ stuff all workin’.”

_“Careful with that,”_ Aevar told the man, switching back to High Gothic. _“Can’t have that breaking on us when we need it most.”_

_“Of course, my lord,”_ he bowed.

“See that?” Aevar grinned, returning to Juvik. “Curt and honorable.”

“Ya really want me ta sound like tha’ all th’ damn time?”

“No, but a curtsy every so often would be nice.”

“So wha’ now?” Maeva groaned. “Still fixin’ up th’ defenses?”

“Can’t leave the poor guards with their asses hanging in the wind,” Aevar said, pulling his servo-arms close. “Saw a couple of lascannons laying around. Might as well get those set up and see if there are a few more heavy bolters that need some tender loving care.”

“Then we go back ta twiddlin’ our thumbs?”

“You mean planning assaults.”

“Yea, tha’s it.”

**_+The assault nears,+_** Bjorn rumbled in flawless High Gothic. The guardsmen threw themselves at the floor as the Fell-Handed walked forward. Inquisitor Parsef was a step behind him.

_“That was fast,”_ Aevar said.

_“My asset works fast,”_ Parsef grinned.

**_+Let’s hope she’s as good as you say she is,+_ ** Bjorn said. **_+And that Little Bjorn is capable of handling some orks.+_**

“Heh, ‘Little Bjorn,’” Maeva chuckled. “He, ya kept tha’ channel open ta his pack mates?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Can’t quite remember,” Aevar grinned.

“If everyone starts callin’ him ‘Little Bjorn,’ he’ll kill y’ for tha’, you know, yea?”

“A chance to kill the Blasphemer? He’d have to get in line.”

 

* * *

 

The bikes were the first to hit the flagging ork lines. Helfist could hear the roar of the engines, the howl for blood, and the savage ork cries even inside the Land Raider.

“Here we go,” he shouted. “Back to the front!”

Behind him, the rambunctious Blood Claws screamed, either for blood, or the chance to avenge their fallen brothers. The kill-urge on them was as thick as sweat, the smell was suffocating. No one knew eagerness quite like the young.

“Hit those orks,” the driver said, throwing the assault ramp down. The grenades embedded on the front of the Raider exploded, showering shrapnel towards the ork lines. It kept their heads down, allowing the pack of Claws to assault them without trouble.

Helfist swung a wide haymaker at a stunned ork. Even without him beseeching the heroes of Fenris, it took the xeno’s head off. His bolt pistol chattered, peppering the next ork with shots.  Only a few Claws were hurt by the savage counter-attack. They had gotten a good group of younglings this time around.

An ork stepped forward, swinging two massive swords at Vermund. He blocked one and dodged the other. Before he could retaliate, a massive figure slammed into the ork. Claws made from steel but sheathed in lightning tore the ork into several parts. Blood and viscera bloomed.

“Need a hand there, Vermund?” Bjorn Stormwolf said, flicking the blood off his wolf claws.

“Just saving a few for you,” Helfist said. Another small group of orks charged them, and they swung to face them together.

“Could save me a few more,” the Stormwolf said, battering the orks away. “I’ve been getting cramped staying in the Aett for that long.”

“No guarantees,” Helfist said. An ork fell to a well-placed bolt to the head. Ahead of them, the massive ork tank column had ground to a halt. But the Predator tanks and Land Raiders were making quick work of them. And all around them, more orks were running into the massive fray they were creating. Perfect for his Jarl and the Claws to stretch their legs.

Just as planned.

“How are the Claws doing?”

“Well enough. More piss and vinegar than anything else, but what Claw isn’t?”

“That Wight comes to mind,” the Stormwolf said, nodding over his shoulder. The pack of Claws were tearing into the orks with rabid delight. All but Wight, who still seemed mute.

“Looks like I hit him a little too hard. Sorry about that.”

“If that’s all it takes to make ‘em see the light, then hit _more_ of them like that,” Bjorn laughed. “Maybe we could save a few of them from themselves.”

“Maybe later,” Helfist said, looking around. More and more orks were charging in, eager to fight. “Looks like we got a mob of nobs bearing down on us.”

“Good. Could use a challenge for once,” Bjorn grunted.

“Just be careful, will you?” Helfist said. “If you fall, I don’t think we could build a big enough fire to roast you.”

“You planning on putting me in the ground already—“

Cries went up from just behind them; the Blood Claws’ cries.

“Behind us!” Someone yelled. Helfist spun around. Four of the Claws were falling; a group of purple-covered orks had appeared from nowhere and sunk daggers into their armor, at the joints and tiny openings.

“Claws, form up,” he yelled, running to the falling youngsters. “Turn around, dammit!”

The orks were fast. As soon as one Claw was dead, they were moving onto another. The Claws back peddled, doing their best to beat the orks back.

“Where in the seven Hels did you come from?” Helfist roared, swinging at one ork. The purple-clad ork danced aside, like he was barely there, then lashed out with his two daggers. One scored a deep gouge along Helfist’s armor, the other he blocked with his pistol.

He swung again, but the ork faded away, like it wasn’t there. A brief look back, and he could see that the Claws were being overwhelmed. The orks hit them hard, and they had hit them fast. Since when did orks do any sneaking around?

Helfist closed his eyes, beseeching Fenris for strength. He would need more power than last time if he wanted to save the Claws. They were under his ward, his protection; he couldn’t leave them to die.

His inner ear tilted, and he had to focus all of his energy in making sure the bit of raw might of the heart of Fenris didn’t spiral out of control. Soon, he had enough. Shaping it with his hands, the ball of green magick took shape, only instead of pushing it deep into himself, he threw it, sent it out to the Claws. He could feel the power entering their bodies, coursing their veins as well as his.

“Do not fall! We will endure this!”

One Claw was cut by three orks. Their knives slid into his elbows and neck, one penetrated his armor and slid into his belly. The magick sealed his wounds the second they were created, and the orks pulled their blades free, only to see a few droplets of blood leak out before his flesh was knitted back together. The Claw stumbled back, confused and disoriented that he felt no pain. Spitting out his confusion, he launched himself back at the orks. 

Wight advanced on one big ork, who carried what looked like two power daggers that crackled with energy. The ork swung out, carving through his armor like it wasn’t there. Wight was sliced and diced, staggering with each hit. But the blessing that Helfist sent him kept him upright. He retaliated, swinging his chainsword in expert swipes, but the purple-dressed ork, like the others, simply faded away, like he wasn’t there. Wight growled.

A knife slid into Helfist’s neck. He could feel it twist, a white-hot brand of pain before Fenris’ blessing killed the pain dead in its’ tracks. He twisted and back peddled, tearing the knife out of the ork’s hand. Grunting, he pulled it out, and could feel the power of the heroes twist inside of him, knitting his flesh and sealing the wound. He threw the knife away and faced down the ork.

“That hurt,” he hissed. The purple ork laughed and lunged.

He battered aside the remaining dagger, shooting at the fading purple ork. Where the Hel was the bastard? It was like hitting air, or trying to fight an Eldar. The ork sliced at his leg, finding a weak spot in the armor, and cut him from the back of his thigh to his stomach. The hero who lent him strength knitted it, but failed to fully seal it as the blessing burnt itself up. His super-human physiology tried to repair the damage, but was too slow for the fast pace of battle.

The ork went high, and Helfist went low. He darted in, flipping the creature over his shoulder. The ork landed on its back, and Helfist quickly spun, falling back on the creature, pinning it to the ground.

“Stay still, will you?” He begged the heroes of yore for strength, gathering enough of their might to bind his arm with iron. The ork’s head was crushed to a pulp.

“Claws!” He cried, getting to his feet. “Form up, fight together!”

But more orks were suddenly all around them. The purple orks were pushing them from behind, and more orks were racing to their front.

“Stormwolf, my jarl,” he called.

“Little busy right now,” Bjorn replied. The massive jarl was swinging at a tide of orks, trying to shield a fallen guard. The guard had a dagger lodged in his eye. Helfist didn’t know if he was alive, in the Red Sleep, or dead.

“Greybeard.” He was surprised to hear Wight speak up for once. “We need help.”

Growling and limping with pain, he turned back to the purple orks. They were making a new push at the Claws, cutting apart armor with greater ease. And the big ork, with the power daggers, was killing more claws than ever. He had to stop him.

“You! Purple-covered craven!” Helfist yelled, trying to grasp more power from the heroes. “You want a real fight? Get over here!”

“Got some nice teef there, ‘ummie,” the ork laughed. “Think I’ll take ‘em from ya!”

His muscles turned to iron bands just as the ork launched himself into the brawl. Helfist roared, charging back. The ork faded in and out, dodging his punch. He was quick on his feet, quicker than an ork should be. The power daggers dug into his armor, cutting his arm open. But with the blessing firmly in place, they didn’t cut his suddenly iron-hard flesh.

“Damn orks, die!” The Stormwolf yelled from somewhere behind him. Vermund couldn’t spare the concentration; the ork he faced demanded all of it. Bolts that should have hit it dead center somehow caught only cloth. A firm swing was blocked, parried, and left him vulnerable. Another Claw fell to the damned greenskins; he had to work faster.

Marshalling all of his strength, Helfist roared, bringing his hands down on the ground. With his blessing, he smashed the torn-up road underfoot. A massive piece of concrete pushed itself up off the ground, throwing the orks and the Claws around. Suddenly, the xenos were not on even footing; they slipped and fell. The Claws roared and lashed out, hitting the orks for once in the damned fight.

Chainswords hit flesh, and orks finally started to die. All but the big ork with the two power daggers. He jumped up to his feet. Only this time, he was looking at the battle that was unfolding.

“Get out of here, gitz,” he screamed.

Then he turned and ran. Helfist blinked; he never saw an ork willingly run from a fight. Three of the purple-orks were slaughtered, but the rest ran with their leader. The orks made it to a nearby ruin of a park, and suddenly, they seemed to disappear.

“Who’s left?” Vermund demanded.

“We’re it,” Wight said. They were only three left. Shock and rage were burning in their eyes as they looked for the strange orks.

“We can’t chase them,” Vermund said, looking his fist over. Dammit, smashing the ground wore off a few layers of blood. He’d need more. “We’re needed back there. Come on, get to the Stormwolf, we can’t let him fall.”

Roaring, the Claws charged headlong into the battle. With the ork tank column getting smashed to bits, more and more orks were running into the fight. They were pouring out of the ruined buildings, from the rubble-strewn streets, from anywhere and everywhere. They were doing a very good job of attracting the orks.

“Stormwolf!”

Their Land Raider escorts were busy keeping the looted trukks and tanks at bay; they couldn’t provide enough covering fire for the Vlka on the ground. Helfist led the Claws forward, wading back into the melee.

“About time you got back here,” Bjorn said. One arm was cherishing a side, the other kept lashing out at the greenskins. Three of his guard were on the ground, their Terminator armor keeping them on their feet, even in death. “I take back that bit about saving me some orks.”

Helfist begged for the might of Fenris again, forming the blessing with his mind. But this time, the malefactorum tried to interfere.

The damned immaterium pushed the gates of power open, pushing their way into his mind, opening it passed capacity. Screaming in pain, Helfist tried to stand his mental ground, pushing himself harder and harder to close the doors to the warp. But the doors just wouldn’t close.

Raw power spilled from his eyes, his mouth, through every place it could go. The pressure was overwhelming, far more painful than that simple cut the ork gave him.

Grasping through his bag of totems, he felt a big rune fall in his hand, the one that had the ward of aversion carved into it. He pressed the rock against his head, and could feel the ward cut the flow of power down to size.

He looked deep into the rune, a diamond with a line running from top to bottom.

_I see you,_ he thought. _I see you, and I cast you out. I break you, destroy you, crush you, so you shall know fear and never return to haunt me._

The ward glowed as its blessing was activated. The flow of power from the malefactorum was slammed shut, leaving only the pure might of Fenris to grant him power. He gasped for breath, trying to calm both of his hearts. The blessing spun around his fingers, and he pushed it out to his wounded Jarl and his retinue.

With the power of the heroes running through his veins, Bjorn stood to his full height and pushed against the orks. His guards lashed out, pushing the never-ending tide back.

“For once, I’m glad you helped out,” the Stormwolf said.

_Someone said the Stormwolf was in trouble,_ a voice on the vox said.

“We need support,” Helfist said, gasping for breath. “Now, dammit, now!”

The air cracked, and another squad of Jarl Guards teleported in. Helfist blinked; it was Thorgil, the pack picked to test old man Ironclaws’ strange contraptions. Their massive, ancient-yet-new Terminator armor was stained with blood; their weapons were positively coated with it. None of them seemed the least worse for the wear.

“We heard you the first time,” Thorgil, said. “Get the Stormwolf out of here. We’ll cover you.”

“Claws, help the Stormwolf,” Helfist ordered. Ahead of them, Thorgil’s pack charged headlong into the tide of orks, blades flashing and power fists swinging. “Get back to the Land Raiders.”

A few of the Claw bikers broke from combat and were making their way back as well. One was small for a Claw, and was missing an arm; he ultimately crashed. Helfist pulled him from the wreckage and dragged the small Claw towards the Land Raider; an odd smell tickling his nose. But he couldn’t concentrate on a smell.

“Give me a hand with my men,” the Stormwolf said, pulling one of his fallen pack mates back, struggling against the mass of the Terminator armor. Wight jumped forwards, helping tug one of the fallen Guards backwards.

“Get in,” the Land Raider driver said, easing the massive assault craft forward. The ramp dropped, and the injured and dead were brought in. Fortunately, the ork column was all but destroyed; they were relatively unharassed as they filed in.

Ahead of them, the five guards stood their ground. Orks were cut to ribbons and crushed with ease. The orks beat their ramshackle weapons against them, but it was in utter vain.

_Heard you needed some fire,_ the vox crackled. It was Ironclaws himself. _Artillery inbound; watch your head, this’ll be close._

The ramp was closed and the Land Raider pulled away, just as the ground rumbled with artillery strikes. Helfist pushed his way to the nearby hatch, looking out. The ground was turned up and shattered by the bombardment, and the orks were finally falling back themselves. But standing in the middle of the freshly made craters were the pack of five, surrounded by glowing blue refractor shields, safe and sound and almost looking bored.

“Damn that Ironclaws. Gotta get me some armor like that.”

 

* * *

 

The Land Raiders trudged back, stopping as they came within meters of the temple’s defensive parameter. Along with the Whirlwinds and Vindicaters at the perimeter, there were squadrons of Leman Russ battle tanks and Chimera troop carriers. There were even Basilisks.

_“So_ that’s _where Ironclaws got that artillery from,”_ Helfist muttered, speaking in a near whisper. Even that was too much. The surge of fell warp power left his head feeling far too small, like he was hungover after drinking a full barrel of mjod. But at least it masked the pain in his side.

The assault carriers ground to a halt, and their ramps lowered again. The Vlka trudged out of the tanks, clutching at wounds and carrying the dead. Guardsmen and women stopped and stared, some crying out just by seeing the dead marines.

_“Who’s injured?”_ Stormwolf demanded. Standing tall, Helfist could see that the orks had managed to crush his armor, sending a metal spike into his side. Blood dried and crusted, only to be broken with every movement. New, fresh blood to spill out. _“Come on, no time to act tough, those orks hit hard. You, there, that’s a lost arm, where are you going? Get in here and stop trying to mingle with the guards.”_

The small Blood Claw who lost an arm was still trying to wander off. Helfist grabbed him and pulled him towards the temple. The smell of an off-worlder tickled his nose.

_“Hel’s Teeth, what’d you get into?”_ Ironclaws said, walking out of the temple. He was still speaking in Juvik, not High Gothic.

_“We found some orks,”_ the Stormwolf said.

_“Looks like the orks found you,”_ Aevar said. _“Get in here ‘fore you bleed to death.”_

_“Didn’t know you cared.”_

_“For you, my Jarl, anything.”_ Helfist couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm in his voice; it didn’t matter, he was too hurt to care. They trudged into the temple, and the guardsmen moved to accommodate them. Bjorn and Parsef were waiting for them at the war table.

**+I see you found your fight,+** the Fell-Handed said, walking out to meet them. He spoke in High Gothic, no doubt for the Inquisitor and guard’s sakes. + **Did Little Bjorn bite off more than he could chew?+**

Somehow, the Stormwolf held his tongue. Talking back was one thing, but talking back to the Fell-Handed…?

“Nearly did,” Bjorn grunted. “Damn orks. Where in Russ’ name did they came from?”

“I’ve never seen orks do this much damage so fast.” This time it was Inquisitor Parsef who was talking. “Will you live?”

“They’ll live,” Aevar said. “Maeva, get me my other kit. This Claw needs more than a few dozen stitches.”

“Don’t tell me you’re an apothecary as well,” the Inquisitor said.

“I’ve some experience with it,” Aevar said. “Had to fill in for our own flesh mender when he was taken out.”

“Now _that_ was a fight,” Helfist said. “Poor Soothsayer, though.”

“Aye, poor Soothsayer. Damned good fight, but a bad hit.”

“Why didn’t we bring him along? He was just put into the care of the dreadnaughts, he would have loved to bash some ork skulls.”

“Aye, it would do him a world of good. But he wouldn’t wake.”

**+Death changes us, especially when it’s a fresh death,+** Bjorn said. **+Tell me, how many orks did this? I see a nearly depleted pack of Claws before me.+**

The Claws in question bit their tongues and turned away. Their pride was hurt, far more than they were. Even Wight burned with embarrassment.

Maeva returned to Ironclaws with a massive leather pack. He unrolled it and pulled out needles, thread, and a jar full of balm.

“Might want to bite something,” Aevar said to Little Bjorn. His servo-arms pulled the pieces of armor out of his jarl’s side, and fresh blood spilled out. Bjorn grunted with pain, but kept his mouth shut. Ironclaws’ other servo-arm threaded the needle and went to sealing the wound shut.

“The orks. They…sprung a trap on us,” Helfist said.

“’They sprung a trap?’” Parsef laughed. “Orks don’t plot traps, they walk into them.”

“Not these orks.”

“I think you bit of more than you could handle,” Parsef said. “’Sprung a trap.’ That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“More so than ork snipers?” Helfist snarled. Parsef spun, eyes wide with shock. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard _they_ don’t exist, either.”

**+Describe these orks to me.+**

“They were big. Not nob big, but bigger than most other orks. And they wore purple.”

“Purple?” Parsef sputtered.

“Aye, purple,” the Stormwolf said. He flinched, nearly jumping aside. He turned to Ironclaws. “Watch it, you got that kaerl of yours learning to sew, too?”

“Sorry, must’ve hit a nerve,” Ironclaws said. “But purple?”

“Purple! Lots of it. Purple bandanas, purple sashes, purple knuckle-wrappings, they were damned near covered with the stuff.”

“The bigger ork. Power daggers,” Wight mumbled. He ran a finger over his cut up, ruined armor.

“Was he the one to do that number on you?” Aevar asked. Wight nodded. “Damn. Maeva, you got any better with fixing armor?”

“Wha’, ya mean th’ armor ya never let me get my hands on?”

“That changes now. We’re gonna have to work like mad to get all that ready for battle.”

“So how did you get away?” Parsef sneered. “Did you run?”

“Run?” the Stormwolf rumbled. “The orks were the ones who ran.”

“Orks? Running _from_ battle?”

Aevar eyed the Stormwolf, who bristled. Everyone knew orks never willingly ran from a battle.

“So a purple ork, with _power_ daggers, sneaks up on you and nearly kills you all, then runs, and I means _runs_ , away,” Parsef said. He shook his head. “Madness, coming from mad wolves.”

**+Interesting. I haven’t seen a kommando in quite some time.+**

“Sorry?”

**+The ork, the one with the power daggers, was he the one in command?+**

“He acted like it. He was the one who called for the retreat,” Helfist said.

“Would you care to share your musings with us?” Parsef demanded.

**+It appears that a kommando is the warboss.+**

“A’ kommando?’ There’s no such thing as kommando orks. Their brains are too small to comprehend sneaking.”

**+There _are_ such things as kommando orks,+ ** Bjorn said. **+I fought them before. Sneaky bastards. Ruthless killers because you never see them coming.+**

“And we’re to trust the mad ramblings of a centuries old dead man?” Parsef said.

Bjorn’s massive dreadnaught frame slowly turned to face Parsef, each footfall echoing in the temple.

**+I talked to the Emperor before he sat on the Throne.+**

 “You’ve…” Parsef swallowed hard. “You’ve talked to the Emperor?”

**+Aye, I have.+**

“…Bjorn?” Pasef blinked, realization dawning on him. “Bjorn, who talked to the Emperor? By the Throne, you’re _Bjorn the Fell-Handed_ , aren’t you?”

**+That’s what they call me.+**

“Why, uh, pardon me, but why did you not say that before?”

**+Because I’m sick and fucking tired of titles, and of people fucking kneeling,+** Bjorn said. **+Let me speak, and we’ll get out of this with a story to tell. Now, what do we know? The orks have spent weeks assaulting this world. But in that time, a warboss was never sighted. Strange, don’t you think so?**

**+Without a warboss, there’s no Waargh. It’s with a warboss that they are able to break through defensive lines with ease, crush armored columns and slaughter troops. They’ve accomplished all of those gains, but without a warboss.+**

“So they’re relying on another leader to accomplish those goals,” Helfist said.

“Breaking lines without a loud sound?” Ironclaws said, moving onto another wounded Claw. “Sounds like commando shit to me.”

“Cowardly orks,” the Stormwolf spat. His acidic spit sizzled on the marble floor. “Who ever heard of orks relying on whelp work?”

_“Whelp work tha’ almost cut yer thread,”_ Maeva mumbled it Juvik, but not quietly enough. The Stormwolf glared at her, but she ducked behind Aevar to help him seal another wound.

“You expect us to believe in something that doesn’t exist?” Parsef demanded.

**+When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, _must_ be the truth.+**

“Don’t take our word for it, ask your ‘asset,’” Ironclaws said.

“My asset is in the field.”

“No, they’re not,” Helfist said. He turned to the small, armless Claw. “Want to speak up for yourself?”

The Claw stared at him with dead eyes.

“Come on, we all know you’re not one of us, out with it.”

Suddenly, the Claw began to change. His skin bubbled and melted; pieces of his armor fell off into melting puddles of plastic, kicking up a fine layer of dust on the floor. He shrunk, hunks of fake skin falling off and melting into puddles of strange goop. Left standing was a tall mortal woman, dressed head to toe in a black catsuit. A long braid of red hair was the only thing that wasn’t covered, and a strange blade hung at her wrist. Maeva hissed, making the mark of aversion on her neck.

“This one was careful,” the assassin said in a flat, neutral voice. “She wishes to know how you were able to spot her.”

“All you offworlders smell,” the Stormwolf said, tapping his nose. “Can’t get rid of that.”

“This one understands. She will adjust her disguises in the future.”

“Geist, what are you doing back here?” Parsef demanded. “I told you to stay out in the field.”

“This one apologizes, but there is information that you need to know,” the woman said.

“And you couldn’t use the vox?”

“You would not have believed her otherwise.”

“What’s with all this ‘this one’ business?” The Stormwolf demanded. “Talk like a regular person.”

“This is how this one always talks,” the assassin said.

“Geist is from Krieg,” Parsef said. “I dare to assume you’ve all heard of Krieg?”

“Ah, so she’s a member of the Death Korp,” Aevar said. “That explains a lot.”

“This one _was_ a member of the Death Korp,” the woman said. “Then she was recruited to serve the Inquisition.”

“Alright, hold up, dumb death worlder here,” Maeva said. “Wha’s a Death Korp?”

“The Death Korp are Imperial Guards who are born and raised on the world of Krieg,” Geist said. “We have no self, for only in death can we atone for our sin.”

“An’ wha’ sin is tha’?”

“The sin of our forbearers, who committed treason by turning from the Emperor’s light. We are all guilty of the sin, and we can only repay that endless debt through our sacrifice.”

“You need ta die ta stop bein’ a sinner?”

“That is right.”

“You’re right scary, you know tha,’ yea?”

“This one is aware of the reputation the Death Korp carries.”

“Geist, cut to the chase,” Parsef said. “What do I need to know?”

“That the dreadnaught is right; the orks appear to be in control of a ‘kommando,’” she said. “After completing her mission, this one infiltrated multiple groups of orks. All talked about an ork called ‘Shivvers’ who was ‘brutally cunning,’ more so than any other ork. This one was in deep cover; using the vox caster would have destroyed her cover. Also, the Space Marines offered a convenient way to return to base to attend to her previous injuries so she may remain in peak form.”

“Fine,” Parsef said. “So. A ‘brutally cunning’ ork who shouldn’t really exist is leading this little genocidal pub crawl of a Waargh.” He sighed, trying to get used to the idea. “The universe is not lacking with such…oddities.”

**+How are your men, Little Bjorn?+**

“Hurt, but pissed off and ready for round two,” the jarl said. “We’re gonna hit those orks right where it hurts. Ironclaws, did you and the Fell-Handed find what passes for the ork’s central command?”

“We found an ammo dump, does that count?”

“It most certainly does. Hear that? The orks were kind enough to put all of their eggs in one basket. We kick them down, we stop them and their damned guns.”

The Vlka howled, ready to avenge their fallen.

“Just give me some time to get your armor patched up, alright?” Ironclaws sighed.

“Once you’re done with it, we’re heading out,” the Stormwolf snapped. “Can’t be letting those orks band together for very long.”

“We might have some more time than you think,” the assassin said. “This one killed several nobs before your assault. They should still be fighting to restore order, even if their kommando/warboss himself personally restructures their ranks.”

“Oh good, more time to get this armor ready for another pounding,” Ironclaws said. He handed the leather bag back to his kaerl assistant. “Time to learn how to fix power armor, Maeva.”

“’Bout time, too.”

**+Make room for me, Little Bjorn. I need to stretch my legs,+** the Fell-Handed said.

“The more, the merrier,” the Stormwolf laughed. “You Claws are lucky to be fighting with a living legend! Get ready to move out!”

“Hold still, this armor isn’t gonna fix itself,” Ironclaws snapped. “Maeva, this is regular power armor, not our other project; that’s the actuator, not the fiber bundle.”

“Tha’ slimy lookin’ thin’?”

“Yes, grab that and get it connected.”

“Eugh.”

“It’s just grease. Get used to it.”

“Geist, a word,” Parsef said, jerking his head towards the map. The black-clad assassin silently slunk away. The Fell-Handed quietly watched them walk away.

_“My jarl, did the assassin see my new suits?”_ Aevar asked, switching back to Juvik.

_“Think she did,”_ the big marine said.

_“Oh, she saw ‘em, alright,”_ Vermund said. _“I grabbed her when she was disguised as a Claw. She got an eye full of them.”_

_“So what do we do now?”_ Ironclaws asked. _“Can’t exactly go around getting an Inquisitor’s assassin killed.”_

_“Not to mention they’re damn tough for regular humans,”_ Vermund said.

_“How tough?”_ Maeva asked.

_“Tough enough to take out Grey Hunters with ease.”_

_“Damn.”_

**_+We stay quiet,+_** Bjorn said with finality.

_“Wha’s tha’ gonna do, eh?”_

**_+It’ll keep the Inquisitor on our side, for the time. We can’t deal with both Orks_ and _an Inquisitor, especially one who can turn the Imperial Guard on us.+_**

_“And when she does tell him?”_ Vermund said.

_“Then we kill them,”_ the Stormwolf said.

**_+No, the Inquisition hates us enough as is. We can’t give them a reason to doubt us, especially in the midst of a Waaargh. We stay quiet, even if she talks.+_ **

_“So we’ll deal with it later.”_

**_+One step at a time, Little Bjorn. We can’t risk plotting and planning ourselves into a corner.+_ **

The Stormwolf growled, obviously displeased at his new namesake, but kept his peace.

“Um, excuse me, my lords?” Everyone turned to see a meek guardsman slowly approach them. “I couldn’t help but…I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but…”

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, spit it out,” the Stormwolf barked in rough High Gothic.

“Ah! Well, you see, we want to help attack the orks.”

“And how would you help?”

“W-we have tanks and artillery…”

The Stormwolf grinned. _Now_ the human was speaking his language.


	13. Assault on Nebakenezer

It never ceased to amaze Aevar that the orks knew how to build, but never knew how to build the right way. All of their structures were cobbled together with bolts and maybe a few load-bearing buttresses, but it was all a mess. A mess that somehow stand up to anything from a bolt to a battle cannon shot. With the Waaargh roaring, he could see plenty of the structures from the hatch of the Land Raider.

“Ah, now this is how it should be,” Bjorn sighed, pulling himself up on the other hatch. “A good breeze, a good fight, and enough guns to deafen us all!”

“Too right!” Aevar said.

“What’s that? Speak up, Ironclaws.”

Aevar sighed. Bjorn’s normal talking voice was able to carry over the din of their army; of course his was drowned out. They rode to battle with three Land Raiders and a Rhino. Flanking them was a squadron of Leman Russ battle tanks, two Hellhounds, and a small squadron of Basilisks. Surrounding them, weaving in and out of their paths, were still more bike-mounted Swiftclaws, howling and screaming. It made for quite the racket.

He pointed back down to the Land Raider, then jumped down before Little Bjorn could stop him. Pressed in the hold were his team of Jarl Guards, down two from the ork commando’s attack. The third who was injured swayed on his feet, staying up through sheer grit and thickheaded stubbornness. Standing with them was Maeva, who looked comically small and frail pressed against the massive suits of armor.

“Just bring th’ crazy mortal whore along, why don’t ya?” She grumbled, fiddling with her tool belt. Two axes hung at her waist. “Yea, this’ll be a right proper riot, eh?”

“You want to be my kaerl, you’ve got to work with me,” Aevar said. The Land Raider shook as Little Bjorn jumped down. “Think of this as a big adventure.”

“Aye, a big adventure ta get my thread cut,” she grumbled.

“Come on, what kind of Fenrisian are you to not like a good fight?” The Stormwolf said, his voice drowning out the engine in the enclosed space.

“I ain’t talkin’ bout dying in battle, I’m talkin’ ‘bout gettin’ crushed by fat hands over here,” she said, jerking a thumb at the Guard who stood next to her. A massive chain fist was not but a few hand breadths from her head.

“Ha! Hear that, Rockbreaker? You got a new name!” The Stormwolf roared.

“’Fat Hands,’” the Guard said. “Aye, I’ll take that name. Little Bjorn.”

The Stormwolf’s laughter died in a heartbeat, replaced with bitter hate. Aevar had to chuckle, along with Maeva and a few Guards.

“You just had to open that fucking channel to the Fell-Handed, didn’t you?” Bjorn growled.

“Speaking of Bjorn, we need to check on the Fell-Handed,” Aevar said, slipping his helmet on. He opened  vox channel. _Bjorn, how are you?_

 **+Like I’m shaking the rust from me,+** he replied. Aevar stuck his head out of the hatch, seeing the Fell-Handed trotting alongside the Land Raider.

_Have you formulated a cunning plan?_

**+I’ve a plan. Don’t know if it’s cunning or not.+** He gestured with the massive wolf claw as his hand. **+Little Bjorn will charge into the ork compound. We’ll set up further back with your Long Fangs, providing covering fire with the Basilisks. The tank squadrons will travel around the compound, sealing the orks in and keeping others out.+**

_And what if that damned commando shows up again?_

**+I’m counting on it. If he can sneak in, we’ll have to make sure he can’t sneak out.+**

_Excellent idea. Do you see a spot for us?_

The Fell-Handed looked, examining the landscape. There were ruins all around them, and all of them looked ready to collapse. Finally, he found one that overlooked a boulevard that led to the ork’s massive stockpile. It seemed sturdier that the others, meaning it wouldn’t fall over from a rough breeze.

**+This’ll do.+**

“Driver, halt!” Aevar called. “Maeva, this is our stop.”

“Great, now I can die by orks ‘stead a head rubs,” she grumbled, trying to push her way to the hatch. The other Guards teased her by tousling her hair. They were careful though, wary of their strength and war gear.

“Stay out of my hair, Blasphemer,” the Stormwolf growled. “Getting that new damn name made me angry.”

“Don’t blame me, my jarl. It was the Fell-Hand’s doing.”

“And I can’t exactly take my frustration out on him, can I? You’ll have to do.”

“My jarl is punishing me.”

“That’s the damned idea!”

“I recognize my failings and will be sure to correct them.”

“Damned well better.” The Stormwolf hit the hatch, closing it. The Land Raider chugged along, grinding stones into sand as it rumbled on. A Rhino behind them sat as a team of Long Fangs got out, carrying heavy weapons.

 **+Tank squadron one, move around the left side of the ork’s base,+** the Fell-Handed ordered. **+Squadron two, the right side. Meet with squadron one at the side; you’ll be the anvil and the Vlka will be the hammer that crushes the xenos.**

**+Basilisks, find some good positions behind us. Long Fangs, get in that building and get ready to rain Hel upon them, I’ll join you. Hellhounds, move with the Land Raiders. Burn whatever they don’t touch.+**

_Gladly!_ The Hellhound’s driver laughed.

**\+ Swiftclaws, hunt down those who run, or seek to join the battle.+**

_We’re all set up,_ the Long Fangs said.

**+Excellent. All units, attack. Little Bjorn, do what you do best.+**

 At his word, the Rout of Fenris was unleashed.

“An’ wha’re we doin’?” Maeva asked.

“Let’s try and get the Long Gangs’ cover improved,” Aevar said. “Can’t leave their asses out in the breeze. Come on.”

Aevar bound through the rubble, Maeva cursing at his heels, doing her best to keep up. The Long Fangs hefted lascannons, plasma cannons, and heavy bolters. They wasted no time in opening up. The air cracked with bolts and super-heated plasma.

“To think that we’d be fighting with the Mighty Fell-Handed,” one yelled. “If only that damn Blasphemer wasn’t here to get in our way.”

“I’m in your way so you don’t lose your head,” Aevar replied, running to the nearest fang. “The orks like teeth, and you greybeards tend to have real good ones.”

“Ha! It’ll take more than a few orks to get my teeth!”

“Maeva, cross bracing. Let’s go.”

Aevar knelt at the rubble and hefted a fallen pillar up nearly a meter, straining under the weight. His servo-arm spun to life, grabbing fallen pieces of metal and arranging them in a rough honeycomb pattern before spot-welding them in place. Maeva pulled over more pieces of metal to weld in place and hold the pillar up. Now, instead of providing knee-high cover, the Fang had cover from the chest on up.

 ** _+Ironclaws, you have your Guard pack on vox?+_** Bjorn called. Aevar blinked; he was using a private vox channel.

_Aye, that I do._

**_+Call them, but keep them on standby. When the kommando shows up, they’ll deep strike in, cutting off their escape.+_ **

_Keep them on standby? Why hold them in reserves? You expect our forces to miss a group of orks?_

**_+Nothing of the sort.+_ **

He blinked, realization dawning on him. Aevar ran to Bjorn, who stood just outside the ruin, lobbing helfrost rounds at the orks downrange. Aevar pulled off his helmet.

“You can’t honestly be doing what I think you’re doing,” he said. “I can’t be using my Jarl as bait to draw the orks out!”

 **+Lower your voice. Any louder and the even the orks would hear you,+** the Fell-Handed said. **+Little Bjorn is too good at what he does to simply die at the ork’s hands. At least, he’d damn well better be.+**

“We need to at least warn him.”

 **+You won’t,+** Bjorn snapped. **+This must look like an attack, not a trap. The orks must be drawn to this, and commit their forces like they would with an attack.+**

“Draw them out? They’re orks—“

 **+Who almost managed to wipe a squad of Blood Claws and Jarl Guards out, along with cutting the thread of your Jarl and a Rune Priest,+** Bjorn said, cutting him off. **+Treat these like regular orks, and we’ll lose. Treat them like clever foes, and we’ll win.+**

Aevar held his tongue.

“Who else knows?”

**+Just you. Don’t worry, we’re giving them two targets; we’re bait as well.+**

“So when the Stormwolf gets back and wonders why some damned orks nearly laid him low, he’ll have me to blame.”

**+He’ll have to talk to me.+**

“Aye, he will, but he can’t do anything to you. Me, he can do what he’d like.”

Bjorn grunted, taking careful aim again. The blast of frost floated down range, hitting a squad of fleeing boyz. Behind them, the Basilisks took up firing. Artillery streaked towards their targets, blasting them to pieces.

“Wha’s th’ rush? We got a fire ta put out?” Maeva asked, jumping over rubble to get to Aevar.

He glared out at the battlefield. He wanted to warn the Stormwolf, but the Fell-Handed had a point. The orks had to be drawn out, and what better way than to show them an exposed flank?

“No, no fire,” he growled. “Just got to get this cover improved. Then we’ll be fixing the Basilisks when the orks finally start shooting at them. Come on.”

He slipped his helmet back on, and accessed Thorgil’s vox channel.

 _Prep teleportation devices,_ he ordered _. The Fell-Handed wants you to strike at a moment’s notice._

* * *

 

Vermund Helfist chewed on some rough plants, grinding the pulp and swallowing. It warmed his throat with soothing, painkilling juices. The pain in his head went from an angry throb to a simple dullness.

He hated it when the warp tried to kill him. He wished he wasn’t born a Rune Priest, and that the malefactorum hadn’t tried to fuck him raw and bloody. He cursed the dark gods for creating this tear in their reality.

‘Wish.’ He snorted at that. Back when he was a mortal child, whenever he said he’d wish for something, his clan elder had laughed at him. He could still see her laughing through broken, yellow teeth.

 _If wishes were fishes, we’d never go hungry,_ she said. _But we_ do _going hungry, so what does that tell you?_

“You Claws ready?” He made himself shout.

The Claws roared, the replacements with more unbridled enthusiasm than those who had survived their run-in with the kommandos. The reality of war was slowly hitting home. About damn time.

“You new blood need to learn a thing or two, and you need to learn it fast,” he said. “Orks are tough! Take a look around and see how many of them survived their first run-in. Does that give you a good idea of what we’re up against?”

Wight chuckled darkly as the new Claws looked to the slightly-older ones.

“So pace yourself, and make damned sure that they’re dead, got it?” He demanded.

 **+All units, attack,+** Bjorn the Fell-Handed ordered over the vox. **+Little Bjorn, do what you do best.+**

 _You heard the Fell-Handed, attack!_ ‘Little’ Bjorn Stormwolf ordered.

The Land Raider rumbled as it assumed combat speed. Light arms fire bounced off its thick hull, doing no damage.

“Here we go,” Helfist yelled over the din. “Hit those orks and make sure they’re dead!”

The assault ramp dropped, and he led the charge out, the Claws’ nearly feral screams echoing off the bolted together buildings. The orks had set up shop with enough munitions to threaten the entire planet. And this was only one of the dumps they set up. One of the biggest, yes, but still one of many.

There were a few squads of orks in the dump, grabbing whatever they could carry.

“Kill these orks!”

“Kill them Space Marines! Come on, get da dakka out!”

The Claws bayed, charging the squads. The hasty overwatch fire sailed overhead, and Helfist was able to put one ork down before hitting their lines.

The orks fought hard, but the Claws, hearing of the ultimate fate of their earlier pack mates, fought harder. A few took solid blows, but gave much more then they got. The dead orks fell, and the yet-to-be-killed orks broke and ran. They chased them down, cutting them into ribbons. Behind him, Helfist’s hair prickled. The Hellhounds were burning the vast swaths of munitions. They started exploding, sending geysers of sparks and fire in the sky.

“Watch your heads,” he barked. There wasn’t much they could do if a random bullet decided to lodge itself into their heads, but if their wyrd wanted them dead, it would have to work for it. “Protect those Hellhounds, they’re making the air breathable again. Or do you like drowning in ork stink?”

“Hel no!” The Claws roared.

“Damn better not! Melta bombs out!”

A few Claws carried massive melta bombs, undoing their mag-locks that held the explosives to their backs.

“Get those bombs an anything that looks like it’ll blow up nicely,” Helfist said. “Come on, you want the guards to do your job for you? You there, it’ll mag-lock itself. Just arm the damn thing and let’s get back!”

The bombs were set on fuel tanks and what looked like artillery shells. With a press of a button, a high-pitched beeping sound was heard. The Claws hesitated, but only for a second.

“Move!”

Wight grabbed one of his less experienced brothers and pulled him back. The beeping picked up in speed until the melta bombs exploded, easily punching through the flimsy metal sheets. The artillery shells blew up in a phenomenal fireball, spilling black smoke into the air.

“Now that’s more like it!” Helfist roared alongside the Blood Claws. Their laughter died in their throats as a massive battle wagon crashed through the barricades.

“You damn ‘ummies! You can’t go blowin’ up our bombs ‘n stuff!” The ork driver roared from the head of the wagon. A brutal drum-like ram war attached to the front, with massive spikes haphazardly welded in place. It was bigger than a Land Raider, and was covered in thick, red paint. The damn thing moved too fast.

“Form up,” Helfist yelled. “Get behind me!”

 _Oh, Allfather, you’d better not let me get mind fucked again,_ he prayed. Vermund gently pulled at the power of Fenris, grasping power from the heroes and fed it through his muscles.

His arms tightened, bursting with power and strength. He had one shot at this, one shot to save the damned fool Blood Claws. It was death or glory, and Helfist would only accept glory.

The battle wagon bore down on him, and he could see the massive, rolling battering ram wasn’t red from rust or cheap paint, but blood. He ground his teeth and focused on the ram.

Helfist smashed the ram, tearing into it with all his might. The ram folded in on itself, crashing back into the wagon. Something popped, backfiring; it spat out cogs and teeth, causing something to jump and fall off its tracks. The wagon came to a stop, pushing Helfist back with its residual momentum.

The ork driver look down at it dumbstruck. He hit the steering wheel, trying to get it to move. He never had the chance; a Land Raider’s lascannon punched a hole clean through the driver’s seat, vaporizing the ork and detonating a fuel tank. Secondary explosions rippled through the wagon, vaporizing it. Heat and fire washed over Helfist, but his armor kept him safe.

Flames licked the wagon as he pulled his fist free. The Claws were cheering, shouting their kill-urges.

“Alright you lot, got a nice taste of what it’s like to crap yourselves?” Helfist said, doing his best to keep his voice level. “Come on, now. There’s more orks to kill!”

His hand was throbbing in pain; he had felt each bone snap under the enormous pressure of his punch and the wagon’s thick hull. His gene-seed and superhuman biology was already mending the damages, but it still stung like a bitch. Dammit all, why did he have to break his fucking hand? And he couldn’t let the Claws know or he’d never hear the end of it.

 

* * *

 

“Oy, is this lil’ thingy important?” Maeva asked, routing around the interior wiring of a Basilisk. It thundered overhead as it spat out shell after shell.

“You want to shock yourself to death? Dammit, hand it here.”

“Wha’s wrong with ya, eh?” Maeva snapped. “Since this battle started, yer all kinda pissy.”

Aevar bit his tonge. Even in his helmet, Maeva could sense his hesitation.

“Just nerves,” he said. “Gotta make sure everything here goes off perfectly.”

“Wha’, ya mean after so many hundreds a years, ya still gettin’ antsy?” She grinned. “We waitin’ fer somethin?’”

“Be ready to move,” Aevar said. “We might need to get into that dump at a moment’s notice.”

“Wha, th’ dump tha’s gettin’ blown ta high Hel?” She jerked her head towards the compound. Numerous explosions were ringing every half-second. Aevar couldn’t even tell if it was from the Basilisks, the Leman Russ’, the Land Raiders or from secondary explosions.

“Just get ready,” he hissed.

“Somethin’ goin’ down?”

“And soon.” He looked over the ruin. The Fangs had better cover from their break-neck work. They were safe enough. “Come on, we got another Basilisk to fix, and they break easily.”

“Alright, now this is more like it,” she grinned. Tools rattled on her flak jacket as she kept pace with Aevar.

Dammit, he couldn’t be using the Stormwolf as bait. Aevar didn’t mind being bait himself, but not his sworn jarl. This must be what the rest of his Chapter felt; knowing what the right thing was, and what to do, but being held back by the Fell-Handed. It felt terrible.

 _Basilisks, sound off,_ he called out on the vox. _Are there any damages?_

 _Our treads are thrown,_ one reported. _We’ve also got a leaking fuel tank._

“Hear that, Maeva? We got something that needs help.”

He jogged over towards the injured Basilisk, Maeva at his heels.

 

* * *

 

“Wha we doin’ Shivvers?”

“Quiet, I’m fhinkin’.”

“Fhinkin’? Fhinkin’ ‘bout how dem ‘ummies are blowin’ up all our dakka? We gots ta do somefin’!”

“We’ll do somethin’. Just fhinkin’ where we gonna hit dem ‘ummies. Now shut up.”

Hidden in the ruins,  Shivvers ran his fingers over his necklace made of Bigklaw’s teeth. More and more boys were being good orks, charging into the fight and roaring at the top of their lungs. Looted trucks and battle wagons were heading in, too, along with an odd big mek or three. The human attackers had tanks, and were giving as good as they were getting. Better, even. That needed to stop.

Shivvers moved down a couple windows, looking for something to stick his knives into. He needed to move, but Grok spoke to him, telling him where to hurt them the most.

“See ‘em over there?” He said, pointing to the other commandos. “See ‘em big guns ‘n big mek-lookin’ thing? Tha’s where we’ll hit ‘em.”

“Not the big ‘ummies inside the dakka place? The ones with their backs to us ‘n everything?”

“Shut it, ya stupid gitz!” Shivvers hauled off and hit the offending ork. “We go stick those ‘ummies in their back, those big guns ‘n mek’ll blow us away ‘fore anything! We take ‘em out, those ‘ummies get easier to hit.”

“Yea, yea, your right, Shivvers,” the orks said, a gleam in their eyes.

“Damn right I’m right. Get a few extra boyz, get ‘em some big packs of boom. Those big guns need big booms to be taken out.”

 

* * *

 

Maeva gasped, straining against the weight of the tread.

“Come on, a little more,” Aevar said.

“It’d be nice if ya could take a little more weight,” she snapped.

“I _am_. You just have to keep it aligned.”

“All this just ta get th’ damn thing lined up?!” She let her hand drop from the tread and slid in the thin metal rod that held the entire contraption in place. It went in nearly two hand lengths, then stopped as her grip shifted.

“Careful,” Aevar said. He grunted, shifting his grip, and was able to spare a servo-arm to helping her realign the tread. “There.”

“’Bout damn time,” she spat, driving the rod home. “There!”

“Good. Now seal the connection, and we’re home free.”

“Ugh, can we go back ta fixin’ armor, eh?” She gasped, pulling out her handheld spot welder.

 _“Driver, you’re good,”_ Aevar shouted in High Gothic.

 _“Many thanks, milord,”_ the driver said, waving from the top of the Basilisk.

“Try not to get shot again, yea?” Maeva said.

_“Sorry?”_

Damn High Gothic. She scowled and tried to speak to the damn fool again.

_“Don’t get shot!”_

_“Oh, right! We’ll try.”_

“Damn languages. Why can’ we all speak the same tongue?”

“We do. It’s called High Gothic,” Aevar chuckled.

“Tha’s not wha’ I meant!”

“Well, too bad. Not everyone is from the ice like us.”

“Yea, well…” She trailed off, re-adjusting her flak jacket that got all turned around as they worked on the fucking tread. “Them orks still kickin’?”

“Aye, that they are,” Aevar said, looking past the Basilisks, towards Bjorn the Fell-Handed and the Long Fangs. “Say what you will about ‘em, they’re damn tough.”

He cocked his helmeted head to the side, listening to what Maeva guessed was a vox channel.

“Bjorn, is the kommando spotted? Thorgil and his pack are getting itchy.”

 **+Not yet,+** the massive dreadnaught replied. **+They’re playing hard to get rid of.+**

“Ha! Tha’ they are!” Maeva laughed.

**+Tell them to stay cool and out of sight. They’ll be needed in the blink of an eye.+**

An explosion went off behind them. Maeva instinctively ducked, while Aevar spun around.

 _“We lost Delta!”_ A guardsman screamed. _“The orks! They’re flanking us!”_

“So close?” Aevar growled. A servo-arm spun around, pulling his massive thunder hammer free from the mag-lock on his back. Hissing, Maeva pulled her two axes out and cut her tool belt free. _“Drivers, move!”_

The tank’s engines growled as they were fed gears, but another explosion threw one up in the air. Somehow, it managed to limp away.

 **+Just as planned,+** Bjorn said with a smile. He turned around. **+Long Fangs, orks to our rear. Open fire.+**

Maeva reached into her pocket and pulled out ear plugs as the heavy bolters opened fire. She peaked around one tank, and saw a massive group of purple-covered orks charging from ruins, followed by more little orks than she’d ever expect.

“Waaaaargh!”

Aevar drew his bolt pistol and opened fire.

“Maeva, fall back,” he barked. “I need your head on your neck, not split open on the ground.”

“Little hard ta do, yea?” She shouted back. “Not a lotta places ta run.”

The orks, the ones not dressed in purple, made a mad dash towards them. The Long Fangs cut half a dozen down, but more made it through the hail of fire. Yelling, she hefted both her axes and charged at them, two steps behind Aevar.

The orks hit Aevar, but his thick armor knocked aside the blows. Maeva was able to bury both her axes in the head of one ork, and pulled them free to spin away from its mate’s attacks. They whistled by her head, dangerously close. She repaid their swings with two more of her own.

The air split as Aevar’s hammer dropped. Orks were crushed, and some screamed as his servo-arms reached out to grab and crush the odd head.

The ground shook and darkness fell over her. She spared a look back and saw the Fell-Handed charging into the mob.

 **+You’re in my way,+** he said, crushing two orks underfoot. His massive lightning claw swiped out, cutting nearly a whole line of orks in half. **+Where’s your boss? Or is he as cowardly as I thought?+**

“Get dem boomies up ‘ere!”

Maeva yelled, cutting into another ork. She only grazed it, giving it a nice scar and pissing it off. The ork stood a full head taller than her, and bellowed its rage and hefted its massive fuck-off sword at her. She threw her axes up to block it; the ork was slow, but much stronger than she though. It nearly knocked her axes out of her hand, sending her spinning to the ground.

She spun, rolled away just as the ork brought it’s sword down. Jumping to her feet, she swung her off-hand axe at it, finally finding purchase just behind it’s jaw. The ork roared, and she swung her other axe, burying it deep into its neck. Blood squirted out and the orks’ shout became a gurgle as blood poured down it’s throat; a killing blow. She tried to pull her axe free from behind it’s jaw, but it held tight.

Another ork advanced, and she struggled to pull the axe free. Suddenly, she _was_ free, tripping over her feet as she fell backwards. Then she realized she left her arm back with the ork.

“Maeva!” The air cracked as Aevar brushed the orks away with a massive swipe. She was screaming and crying, clutching her new stump. “Get a rag on it, stop the bleeding!”

“D-damn ork took my arm!”

“I can see that! Give me a second, need to get these bastards off us. Bjorn, I could use your help.”

**+I’m here.+**

Maeva cried, reaching through her pockets for a suitable rag. She pulled out an oil-stained bandanna and wrapped it around her arm, tying it as hard as she could to stop the blood from leaving her body.

“There! Hit ‘im!”

Bjorn’s massive body was wracked with explosions. Maeva’s ears felt like they were bursting despite the ear plugs. Her skin and hair were singed from the explosion.

“Hit it ‘gain!”

The dreadnaught spun around, cutting down orks, but one jumped, with a big, yellow bag in its hands.

“No!” This time, it was Aevar who was yelling.

The pack exploded, knocking Bjorn back, his metal feet pawing at the ground as he tried to remain upright. His armor was dented, blown apart and in danger of falling off. A massive gash ran from his right arm towards his interned coffin. The cannon arm threatened to fall off; it was only hanging on by a few loose cables.

Aevar sprung ahead, putting himself between the orks and Bjorn.

“Thorgil! We need you, strike now!” He yelled as he peppered the orks with bolts before bringing his hammer across. Where were the purple orks? Weren’t they there, somewhere?

Maeva stuffed an awl between the rag and spun it around as the air cracked apart, marking the arrival of Thorgil and his pack. The pain was overwhelming; she bit her own shoulder to keep from crying out.

“To the Fell-Handed,” someone shouted. Finally, the blood stopped. “Guard him!” Another oil-stained rag kept the awl safely in place. The world spun as she pushed herself up to her feet. She was a Fenrisian, dammit. She was better than this.

“Stormwolf, we need—“

 **+Don’t,+** Bjorn rumbled. His massive frame pulled itself up, and he charged back into the fray. **+He’s too entrenched. We’ll handle this ourselves.+**

His claw was still in shape, and he used it to crush more orks. One ork was trading blows with one of the Guards who wore their new armor. Maeva pushed herself up and ran at it, launching herself onto it’s back before burying her axe deep its neck. The ork bellowed, throwing her free. She hissed as her axe was pried out of her hand. Then the world went black.


	14. Assault on Nebekenezer

The nob backhand Maeva, sending her flying a good ten feet. But that left him wide open; Aevar roared as he brought Katla down on the nob’s head, crushing it to a gory pulp. Thorgil, wearing his massive Cataphractii armor, stepped up to fill his spot.

“Go, get your kaerl,” Thorgil said, “we’ll cover you.”

Aevar risked a look back towards Bjorn. The Fell-Handed fought on, a massive crack that opened his body, running to his sarcophagus. Despite the damage, the Fell-Handed was doing good, but not Maeva. Hissing, he ran to her. Sliding to a knee, he checked her vitals. Somehow, she still had a pulse. It was irregular, but he didn’t have the time to worry about a skipped beat or three.

She did a good job applying a tourniquet to her stump; blood still leaked out, but at a much more manageable rate. The real horror was her head. The nob caved in one side of her face, bursting an eyeball. It was ruined beyond a doubt, and he needed to stop the vicious bleeding.

He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small kit of balms and bandages. He lathered the balm on a handful of bandages, and carefully pressing it into the massive cavity in her face; he saw more than a few patches of grey matter.

“I told you, I need your brains in your head, not on the ground,” he hissed. He wrapped her head, keeping the bandage taunt but not tight. “Good thing you’re unconscious.”

Holding the remains of her arm while a servo-arm spun to life. He mentally selected the welder, and cauterized the veins. Meat sizzled and caught on fire, which he quickly put out. Blood still trickled out, but nothing that would otherwise threaten her life.

“Now stay put, will you?” He got to his feet and ran back  into the battle. “ _Ojor va Russ! Fenrys hjolda!”_

 _“Fenrys hjolda!”_ the battle-cry was repeated.

**+Fenrys hjolda!+**

The orks seemed to buckle under the cry. A few boyz broke and ran, but then another group of orks pounced on them. And they all wore purple.

 **+At last, the kommando shows himself,+** Bjorn said.

“Ya stupid gitz couldn’t do one thin’ right!” The ork was getting nob big, but had such a spring in his step that it was unbelievable.  It was like hitting air. Bjorn took two massive swipes, and only clipped one ork.

“Damn orks, stand still, will you?” Thorgil shouted, swiping at one of the purple-clad kommandos. The orks jumped at him, scraping their daggers against the thick armor, scratching it but doing nothing more.

Aevar swung at the ork, both with Katla and with his servo-arms, but the ork seemed to fade away from each strike. His daggers lashed out, trying to gouge Aevar’s eye out. He turned his head, and the daggers glanced of his armor.

“Oy, ya stupid hummie, don’t you know when you should die?” The ork snapped.

“And _you_ need to hold still!”

“Fat chance at that, hummie!”

Aevar swung Katla, just to get the ork to jump backwards. He smoothly pulled out Iounn and snapped off three rounds. He had the ork dead to right, but a different kommando jumped in front of him, taking the rounds for his warboss.

“Damn ya fer that,” the ork yelled. It jumped forward, trying to skewer him.

Aevar blinked; suddenly there was another ork in front of him, but it was fighting the kommando, not him.

“Stupid gitz, get outta my way!” The commando yelled. “You supposed ta be fightin’ hummies, not orks!!”

Then the ork’s skin melted. It’s bones popped and twisted, and soon it was the assassin standing in front of Aevar.

“This one is not an ork,” Geist said. The ork swung, but Geist was faster. She was faster than even Aevar could move, which surprised him. She lashed out with her strange, wrist-mounted sword. How could a mortal human be so fast?

The kommando staggered back under the fury of blows. Cuts sprang up and his skin, deep enough to draw blood, but not enough to put him down for good. He lashed back, and the assassin gracefully parried, spinning away to bring her strange gun up. Electricity arced, but the kommando was able to jump aside, letting another kommando take the shot. The ork squealed as his eyes burst, then slumped over, dead.

“Damn hummies, we lost this one!” The kommando called. “Get outta ‘ere!”

The kommandos broke away, springing away faster than the guard, or Aevar, could chase them. The assassin gave chase, landing a deep gash in the kommando’s turned back. But Aevar could see that it was a sly play by the ork.

“Get down!”

The ork swung around, catching the assassin on her off foot; the blade sunk deep into her side, nearly tearing her in half. The black-clad woman stayed on her feet, taking one last shot at the retreating ork group, but her show went wide. The assassin limped after them, trying to follow the retreating orks, but Aevar stopped her.

“That’s a big fucking hit you took. Stand still, you’re making it worse.”

“This one has a mission to complete,” she replied.

“’This one’ will bleed herself to death if she doesn’t stop.”

“When?”

“Damn Death Korp,” he grumbled. He gently, but firmly, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Now stand still.”

Using his servo-arms, he grabbed the jar of balm and slathered it on the exposed side of the assassin. Being in such a suit for Emperor-knows how long, her skin was nearly translucent. The balm, a light blue-green, threatened to dye it. The assassin struggled, but he held her fast. The ork cut her deep, tearing her intestines up and even a kidney. Aevar quickly threaded a needle with his other servo-arm.

“This’ll hurt like a bitch.”

“This one is used to pain.”

He sunk his servo-arms into the woman’s side, but the Krieg-born woman kept quiet. Even when he was stitching together her intestines, the woman barely made a sound. Aevar would never admit it, but that freaked him out something terrible.

“There, done,” Ironclaws said, sewing her closed.

The assassin looked the work over.

“This one did not know you are a skilled mechanic.”

“’Mechanic?’”

“Apologies, that is the word for the Krieg Corpsemen who mend wounds,” she said. Then, after a pause, “This one thanks you. Her mission would have been uncompleted if you did not provide assistance.”

“Aye, thanks for facing that kommando down for us,” Aevar said. “He might’ve done more damage to the Fell-Handed.”

“This one finds it strange that the orks seemed to have mastered stealth,” the assassin said, looking out at the ruins.

“Once orks get an idea, it’s hard to stop ‘em. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my kaerl needs help.”

“How badly is she wounded?” Geist asked, following Aevar to where Maeva lay. The Fell-Handed had walked over with Thorgil to stand guard over her. The assassin knelt over her, gingerly taking Maeva’s remaining hand.

“She’s down,” Aevar said, “but she’s still breathing.”

 **+I’ve called Little Bjorn,+** the Fell-Handed said. **+His mission was a success, he’s coming with the Land Raider. We’ll evacuate her.+**

“And repair the damage done to you.”

**+I’d like that.+**

Aevar checked the bandages, exchanging the blood-soaked ones for fresh bandages. The ground shook as the Land Raider drove over and the hatch dropped.

“Damn, looks like she got it bad,” the Stormwolf said, walking out.

“Orks hit hard.”

“Too right. Is the Fell-Handed good?”

**+I’m fine. Shaken, but fine.+**

“What were you doing that drew the—“

**+We’ll discuss tactics once we are back at the temple. We need to regroup, and  heal our wounded.+**

“Sounds good. Fat Hands, you’ve just volunteered; help greybeard there with his mortal whore.”

Geist helped Aevar pick up her body as the Jarl Guard jogged over. He stood guard as he carried her back to the Land Raider. The tank squadrons stayed behind to escort the wounded Basilisks back.

 

* * *

 

 

The trip back to the temple seemed to take forever. Aevar changed the bandage on Maeva’s stump and at her head again just as they finally made it back. The ramp fell; Geist helped him carry Maeva’s unconscious body from the Land Raider.

“This one will help you carry her to the hospitallers,” she said. “They are in the back of the temple.”

“My thanks,” Aevar said. “She’s good help when she’s not trying to get her head knocked off.”

Guards made way for them, and they walked to the nearest bed.

“Sisters, my kaerl needs your help,” he said, keeping to High Gothic.

“By the Emperor, what happened to her?” One gasped.

“The dumb bitch got in a slap fight with a nob, that’s what,” he growled. He and Geist set her down on an empty cot. “I need her alive. Her arm has been severed, it needs to be cleaned.”

“What about her skull? We can only give her the Emperor’s Peace.”

“Give her the Peace, and you’ll get your Peace as well,” he snapped.

“B-but, milord, her skull is caved in. What should we do?”

“Just keep her sucking air until I can help. I’m needed out there.”

“Understood, milord,” the sister said, bowing.

“Forgive this one, but she must report to the Inquisitor,” Geist said, bowing politely.

“Go on. Thanks for the help. Sisters, keep her breathing.”

Aevar spun on his heels and stormed back out. Bjorn had nearly shaken his chassis to pieces on the march back; the orks had damn heavy demo packs. He needed to fix the Fell-Handed, and he needed to do it before Maeva’s threat finally snapped.

“I take it you found your orks,” Parsef said, paying Aevar no mind as he walked to the Fell-Handed. Geist walked to his side, where she silently stood.

 **+We did,+** Bjorn said. He turned to Aevar, switching to Juvix. **_+Aevar, your loyalty is commendable, but your kaerl is more beat up than me. Go to her.+_**

 _“Nonsense, you nearly walked yourself to pieces,”_ he said, examining the damage to his dreadnaught body. _“Look, you’re hull is falling apart.”_

**_+I’m already dead; she’s not. Make sure she stays that way.+_ **

_“And leave the Fell-Handed to—“_

**_+Go. I’ve stayed among the living for millennia; I’ll stay this. Besides, when the Fell-Handed is so much as scratched, it sends the Iron Priests running.+_ **

Bjorn motioned behind him; his brother Iron Priests were arriving in force, carrying armfuls of adamantium plates to repair the damage to the mighty Fell-Handed. One stormed by Aevar, bumping him. It was too much of a bump to be accidental.

 _“We’ll handle this,”_ the priest said coldly.

 _“Thank you,”_ Aevar said, bowing. He grabbing a scrap piece of adamantium/plasteel alloy; it was the size of his hand, from wrist to fingertips. Just what he needed.

He pushed his way through the temple, back to the sister hospitallers. A small group were tending to Maeva, pushing drips and needles into her limp body.

“Milord!”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’ve done your best,” he said. “Now move over, there’s some work to be done.”

“She’s at the Emperor’s steps; her body can’t take anything else.”

“Says you. You’ve never seen how stubborn us Fenrisians can be. Do you have a servo-skull? A handheld scanner, anything?”

“W-we have a skull, milord. We use it to scan for injuries.”

“Excellent. Call it.”

“Why?”

“Most of her head is gone. I’m trying to rebuild it for her.”

The sisters grimly nodded and went to securing Maeva to the cot she lay on. A sister arrived with the servo-skull in tow. Aevar mentally linked it to his cranial implant, and began scanning Maeva’s head.

“Are you sure she can survive?” One sister said.

“Pretty sure,” Aevar said. “The rest is up to her. You there, go bring me a big pot of boiling water.”

The closet he ever came to mixing the art of a flesh-mender and an Iron Priest was when he interned warriors into dreadnaught bodies, and even that was mostly forge work rather than healing. But he didn’t have the luxury of backing out now, or looking to some ancient text. He was flying by the seat of his pants, the only true way a Fenrisian knew, the only thing he was truly good at.

After all, it was flying by the seat of his pants that he was able to make Cataphractii armor and Paragon blades.

He made marks on the piece of metal, where to fold the scrapped armor and where to cut, then sent his servo-arms to work.

Sparks flew as he worked at the metal piece. The servo-skull continued to slowly scan Maeva’s face, showing where the bones were shattered and where they stood strong. He shaved the edges, ground them down and raised up spikes to meld with the remaining bone. It wasn’t long before he had a replacement metal skull.

“What about the jaw?” A hosplitar asked.

“I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I want to make sure her damn fool brain has more protection than a few rags. Where’s that boiling water?”

“Right behind you, milord.”

He dropped Maeva’s new head into the boiling water to sterilize it. That much he learned from the Soothsayer.

“Now comes the hard part. We’re gonna have to cut her open and pull out all the fucking bone fragments.”

“Blessed Emperor, please save your loyal servant in her hour of dire need.”

Aevar bit back the desire to pray, and went to work.

“Damn, that’s a big fucking hole,” he grunted.

“There’s a bone fragment.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, looking at it. Pull it out.”

The sisters jumped, each gently reaching in with forceps to pull the fragments out. His servo-arms reached in, gently poking and prodding, searching for remains, but found none.

His servo-arm reached back into the boiling water and pulled the metal skull out. He waved it, cooling it off until it was warm to the touch. He peeled Maeva’s face back until the opening was wide enough to slide the new metal skull into place. Grumbling, he slid it into place, mindful of her brain. But the scans were good, his calculations were right and his hand true; the skull slid into place, right where it was needed. He gently bolted it to the rest of her head.

“Let’s get her face sewed up. I’ll start working on a jaw.”

The Sisters pulled the pieces of flesh back into place, and deftly sewed it up. Aevar got up and walked out of the make-shift hospital. He could hear the Stormwolf bellowing at the Inquisitor from the other end of the building. He could even hear a few of Parsef’s retorts. If the man wasn’t cowed by Bjorn Stormwolf, maybe he had more steel in his spine than Aevar thought.

In the forum of the temple, his brother priests were working feverishly at repairing Bjorn’s dreadnaught. They were making fine progress; there wasn’t much for him to do.

**_+How fares your kaerl?+_ **

_“Her thread is fine, for now. Now all I have to do is make her a new jaw and arm, and she’ll be right as rain.”_

**_+Maybe this’ll do something about that mouth she has.+_ **

_“Probably not. You know how the women-folk are.”_

**_+All too well,+_ ** Bjorn laughed. **_+They’re just as wild as us.+_**

 _“Here, here,”_ Aevar laughed. He went to the small pile of spare parts that he brought with him for the journey. Three servitors were standing guard over it. Recognizing him, they let him pass.

_“Jaw. Jaw, dammit. Well, what do we have?”_

He gathered wiring, small, precise linear actuators and raw metal to make the actual jaw. Finally, he pulled out a small logic-computer that he could implant in her head, just to drive it all. He left, and was given a wide berth by his fellow Iron Priests.

 _“We can be so petty some times,”_ he mumbled as he walked back.

“Milord! Milord!” Aevar jerked his head up; a sister hospitaller was running towards him.

“What is it?” He said, switching back to High Gothic.

“She’s waking up, and she’s trying to get up,” the sister said. “She’s trying to fight us off.”

“That’s our women,” he smiled. “Let’s go.”

Inside the hospital, Maeva was thrashing. She had broken free of her wrist restraint and was trying to kick off a few sisters. Aevar put a gentle hand on her chest, forcing her down.

_“Calm down there, will you?”_

Maeva tried to say something, but with half her jaw missing and the other half hanging on by gristle and thread, she couldn’t say anything; she just moaned some guttural.

_“I said, calm down. You’re not in battle anymore, there aren’t any orks.”_

Maeva shook, her remaining eye wild.

_“You in pain?”_

She nodded.

_“Bad pain?”_

She violently shook her head, flopping her ruined jaw about. Of course she was lying, but Aevar let it slide with a chuckle.

_“That’ll happen when a nob bashes your face in. You’re lucky that didn’t snap your thread.”_

Maeva blinked, as if recalling what had happened. A wild look slowly entered her eye, and she tried to reach for her missing arm. A sister grabbed her, trying to pin her arm to the side.

 _“Listen to me,”_ he said. _“Those orks did one Hel of a number on you. You’re all cut up and barely hanging in there. I was doing some work on you to get you back up.”_

Maeva tried to say something.

_“You’re gonna have to mime it, you’re out a jaw.”_

She growled, or tried to, and shook her hand. Aevar looked at the sister, and motioned to let her go. The sister, face hard, let Maeva move her arm, but never let her arm go. Maeva pointed to her missing arm.

_“You lost it. Ork took it off.”_

She nodded, trying to swallow. She pointed to her eye.

_“Ork popped it when he hit you.”_

She shook her head.

_“You want to see yourself?”_

She nodded.

_“You sure? You ain’t the most polished blade of the bunch.”_

She nodded again.

“Sister, do you have a mirror? Or something with a shine to it?”

“What? We’ll never let her look at herself, are you crazy?”

“No, _she’s_ the crazy one. Come on, anyone got something mirror-like on ‘em?”

A guardswoman hesitantly walked up, handing Aevar a trench knife with a mirror welded to the tip.

“Nice little tool you got here,” he said. “This’ll just be a second.”

He handed the mirror to Maeva. Her breathing deepened as she looked over the remains of her face. She blinked back tears as she saw her cauterized stump.

_“Better?”_

She nodded, handing the mirror back. Her hand shook despite her.

_“Good. Think of it this way: you get to learn how to make a new arm.”_

Maeva nodded.

_“You’re doing a good job keeping yourself together. Some Blood Claws have a hard time accepting a new arm. They get attached to it, you know?”_

Maeva stuck her middle finger up at him. A few guardsmen gasped, but Aevar laughed.

_“I’m gonna whip you up a new jaw, then it’s back to the orks. We’ll work on your arm and eye when we’re back at the Aett.”_

Maeva nodded.

_“Good. I’m gonna knock you out; it’s never pleasant feeling your bones be drilled into. Don’t go dying on me.”_

A sister stuck a syringe into her arm. Maeva blinked, then fell asleep. Aevar handed the mirror back to the guardswoman.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, milord.”

“Right, keep her sucking air, I’m gonna get this jaw set, then I’ve got to get back to the battlefield. Think you can keep her good?”

“As long as the orks don’t break in here,” a sister replied.

“Ha! We better make sure of that, then!” He roared. Chuckling, he cut off the remains of her jaw, leaving her skin intact, and went to fashioning the new metal one. First he formed the shape of it, then he quickly detailed the teeth. Finally, he wired the jaw, and quickly programmed the cranial implant.

He lifted Maeva’s head up and found where the implant would go. His servo-arms spun up, drilling a hole in the back of her head. He slid the implant in with a claw, gently pushing it into the soft grey matter, then he drilled a hole at the base of her jaw to secure everything.

“Alright sisters, the hard work’s done for you. Patch up her skin, get it all connected to the jaw.”

“Thank you, milord.”

“And thank you for keeping her breathing for me.”

The sisters went to work sewing the broken skin into place, and reconnecting the soft pallet and her tongue. He walked out to the main atrium of the temple, only to hear the Stormwolf _still_ bellowing at the Inquisitor.

There were not a lot of people who could yell back at Bjorn Stormwolf, and most of them were fellow Vlka. He walked over to the Fell-Handed, who’s armor was being welded shut.

 _“Looks like they’re being productive,”_ he said.

**_+They’ve been productive since we’ve returned.+_ **

Aevar looked over. Parsef’s assassin, Geist, stood not a short pace from him; maybe his courage was because of her presence. The black-clad woman stood perfectly still, utterly impassive to the shouting match, or the wound he just closed.

 _“We_ still _not going to do anything about her?”_

**_+Nothing’s changed: we leave her be. Otherwise we’d  raise the Inquisition’s ire, more so than we already do.+_ **

_“Think she’s mentioned them, yet?”_

**_+Don’t think so. Where’s the pack hiding?+_ **

_“They’re in some ruins, ready to jump into Hel.”_

**_+Excellent. We’ll need them for the next attack.+_ **

_“And that is…?”_

**_+What I’m planning. How’s your kaerl?+_ **

_“Looks like her thread is tougher than we though.”_

**_+Then death on this world is not in her wyrd. That’s good.+_ **

_“Aye, that it is. Good help is hard to come by.”_

* * *

Parsef was hoarse, but the massive Space Marine seemed like he could bellow endlessly. Gasping for breath, he threw his hands up in the air.

“Fine, charge off to your foolish deaths,” he spat.

“We’ll charge out into glory, and show you how things are done,” the massive man spat back. “Fell-Handed! We’re finding another target. You ready to move?”

**+Your priests worked hard; my armor is ready.+**

“Good. Let’s get out of here, I’ve stood around in one place for long enough.”

Parsef stormed towards the back of the temple. He knew Geist was right behind him, even though he couldn’t hear her.

“This one wishes to know her next assignment,” Geist said.

“You’re not going with those…those fucking barbarians,” he said. Now that he wasn’t yelling, it came out more of a croak.

“We share the same goal: eradication of the orks.”

“But just barely.”

Parsef stormed up to the battle map. The Space Wolves were added in as gray markings, and they were pushing the green tide back. With the destruction of the largest ammo dump, the ork’s momentum was spent; they would make easier targets to attack.

“What is it you wish to do? Is there anything that this one can help with?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. Parsef looked at a map of the sector; they were the only world between the next planet, the all-important forge world of Ironghast. “Then again…That dreadnaught was heavily damaged, wasn’t it?”

“That is correct. This one was able to eavesdrop on the tech marines who were fixing it. They were speaking in their native tongue, and this one’s translation software was not perfect, but they commented that the dreadnaught’s hull was nearly sundered.”

“And they’ve fixed it?”

“Roughly, but yes, they have fixed it. They have done a commendable job in such a short—“

“Thank you, Geist.”

Geist obediently halted mid-syllable.

Parsef looked at the star chart. He needed the heavy armaments that the priests of Mars had access to; there was no other way to crush the orks, not without relying on those filthy Space Wolves. But they were dedicated to their own protection; they wouldn’t risk over-extending themselves. So how would he get their help?

What better way than getting them to believe that their precious machine-spirits were being abused?

“Geist, can you mimic a tech-priest?”

“While the physical form would be easy, this one is not intimately familiar with the way tech-priests talk; she is not trained in the intricate ways of the machine-spirit, only enough to operate them when necessary.”

“We don’t need to get into a full-blown conversation with them, only a short message,” he said.

“What is your order for this one to carry out?”

“What else did you see, or hear, from those tech marines?”

“They referenced a ‘Blasphemer’ in their talks, saying how they wouldn’t let him sully the Fell-Handed’s form.” Parsef spun on his heel, staring at her. “This one assumes that the dreadnaught is the Fell-Handed.”

“They have a what?!”

“They referenced a ‘Blasphemer.’”

“Who is this Blasphemer?”

“This one cannot know. In her short time of reconnaissance , she was unable to place a proper name. He does appear to be linked to the tech priests, although they seem loath to admit it.”

“This is perfect,” Parsef grinned. “What else did you find out?”

“That this ‘Blasphemer’ appears to be the creator of a new-type of armor.”

“What kind of armor? I haven’t seen anything new on them.”

“They appear to be keeping it a secret. This one saw the armor in her last two battles.”

“What did they look like?”

“This one cannot explain them. If you wish, she will draw a picture.”

“Very well, but draw it quick.”

“As you wish,” Geist said, bowing as she walked away.

Parsef turned back to the maps. Yes, it was all coming together. A way to get rid of those filthy, flea-ridden, foaming at the mouth, barely loyal mad dogs once and for all. The Inquisition was looking for a way to bring them to heel for centuries, but the opportunity never presented itself.

Should the Space Wolves continue with their damned rebellious streak, it was only a matter of time until they fell to the ruinous powers; they had to learn who to accept orders from. For centuries, they were able to stay above the Inquisition. But now, now they had something. Harboring a blasphemer, and letting him work on armaments? The plot wrote itself.

A small piece of Parsef knew that he would be bringing a First Founding Chapter down. It was bad, but it would be worse to have them fall to the Ruinous Powers, to become a new traitor Legion. And _that_ fate must be avoided all costs.

“This one’s work is finished,” Geist said, walking back with a sheet of parchment. Parsef grabbed it, and a beautifully rendered charcoal drawing looked back at him. It was a massive suit of armor; it had no visible knee pads, a helm that was sunken into the chest piece, shoulder armor that seemed to be slabs, and leather straps that hung from the waist. Next to the suit was a quick-sketched figure of a human, giving the drawing scale.

“I never knew you could draw so well.”

“This one often sketched in her free time. It has helped her picture her disguises and memorize her targets.”

He shook his head. If she didn’t have the rotten luck of being born or Krieg, she would have made a great artist.

“Whip up a good tech priest disguise. We’re sending a message to the forge world.”

 

* * *

 

Tanks rolled across the broken ground, bike wheels chewed up dirt, and Bjorn the Fell-Handed trotted alongside the Land Raider.

“Back to the front,” Aevar chuckled. He stood in the port hatch, watching the approaching ork encampment. He jumped down among the Blood Claws and closed the hatch, getting ready to fight.

“Deciding to grace us with your presence, eh?” Helfist chuckled.

“Those orks nearly killed my kaerl. Need to work off some aggression.”

“Well, there’s no shortage of orks.” Helfist turned to the Blood Claws and yelled. “See this Iron Priest? His beard was grey when _I_ was but a Claw. He’s seen more war then the Old Wolf himself, and if you’re lucky, you’ll end up just as seasoned as him. Hey, greybeard, got any stories from the wars of Armageddon?”

The Land Raider rocked as they rolled over an abandoned trench.

“Well, there was this one time a bloodthirster of Khorne nearly cut my thread,” he said, scratching his beard. He cleared his throat and Helfist pounded on the hull, measuring a tempo which the Blood Claws were quick to pick up on. The Land Raider itself was alive, it’s beating heart roaring in their ears. Grinning, he launched into the tale.

 

_The packs stood tall and vicious, true,_

_The daemon cover’d in heads._

_Allfather’s blessings left their lips,_

_Blood lashes notch’d their threads._

_Where thirty stood left only four,_

_Defiant of the vile._

_Strike back they did at champion’s curse_

_Bury’d deep their axes’ smiles._

_The champion screamed and thrashed and killed,_

_The pack hewed flesh from bone._

_Wing’d beast did fall and crash the ground,_

_And packs left marks on stone._

The Blood Claws cheered as Aevar brought the hymn to a thunderous close.

“Greybeard, you have another?”

“What Son of Russ would only know one hymn? Here’s an old tale of a scrap I was in once; maybe you youngsters might’ve heard this out on the ice.”

“You’ll have to make your own,” the driver said on the loudspeaker. “We got orks bearing down on us.”

“Hear that? You get to make your own sagas and tales,” Helfist shouted. The Blood Claws ate it up. “You know the drill by now, make sure those orks stay dead!”

The Land Raider was rocked as it was hit with rockets and grenades. Aevar gripped Katla tighter, then launched himself forward as the ramp was lowered. The Claws howled and bowled over the nearest squad of orks. They were learning, slowly but surely; they hit the orks three or four times. It was more so than needed, but there was no such thing as ‘overkill.’

The air cracked as Katla kissed an ork, turning it to a bloody smear. Iounn was in his hands just as fast, peppering the retreating orks.

All around him were the Stormwolf’s forces. Bikes plowed into burna boys, the few Guardsmen’s tanks to follow them engaged in looted tanks and wagons, and Bjorn the Fell-Handed himself spearheaded the assault, crushing the xenos beneath him.

“What a day,” Aevar grinned. “What a _lovely_ day!”

“Damn right!” Helfist laughed, right beside him. “Come on, Claws, keep it up and keep an eye peeled for those damn kommandos!”

They advanced on the ork horde. Another Land Raider crashed into their lines, driving them back. The assault ramp dropped, and the Stormwolf led a charge out into the thick of the fighting.

_“Ojor va Russ!”_

“Kill ‘em hummies!”

This was a fight that Aevar could lose himself in. Mobs of orks were drawn from all over the ruins, each charging into the fight. Bullets pinged off his armor as he returned fire, then lowered his shoulder as he charged in. Katla rang out, cutting threads as she caved in heads.

The Claws, even that damn Wight, were in top form, either from the stories the more experienced Claws told them, or because of Helfist’s formidable tutelage.

Helfist himself kept finding orks to punch as he fought his way from battle to battle. Occasionally, he would whisper, drawing the power of the warp to himself, either to amplify his strength, or to shoot bolts of raw power at the orks, frying them where they stood.

 **+Face me,+** the Fell-Handed bellowed. **+Where’s your warboss hiding?+**

The Stormwolf charged out, his twin lightning claws shredding skin, his retinue following closely behind him, a laugh at his lips.

“Now this is a proper battle!” He laughed. “Come on, where’s that damn kommando?”

Battle wagons rolled in, shaking from lascannon shots and rockets. One lascannon punched through the thick, roughly bolted on armor, blowing up the entire wagon. A group of stunned orks pulled themselves from the wreckage, a few of them were on fire.

The orks were slow, but hit back just as hard. A few Claws were lucky and were just bowled over from the xeno’s brutal strength. One was disarmed, and another was gutted by a power claw. Helfist pushed his way to the injured, trying to shield them as they were pulled back.

“Got another one down over here,” Helfist yelled.

“Dammit, Vermund, I’m an Iron Priest, not a flesh-mender!”

“Too bad, greybeard. You’re the closet we got.”

“There in a second,” he groaned. Katla bashed an ork away, and he was able to take a few steps back towards the wounded claw. He took one look and jumped back in the fight.

“What’s it look like?”

“He’s dead, Helfist.”

“Damn shame,” Vermund hissed. He begged his ancestors for strength and pulled a piece of their power out, strengthening his arms and taking an ork’s head damn near off with a savage blow. “How’s our Jarl doing?”

“What he does best,” Aevar said, blocking a blow with Katla. A servo-arm shot out, crushing the ork who over-extended himself. “How does the Fell-Handed look?”

“In top form over there,” Helfist laughed. “Those orks can’t get away from him fast enough.”

“And that command ork?”

“Still a green-skinned craven.”

An ork roared and was able to land a blow across Aevar’s side. His armor buckled, but held. He retaliated, using Katla to turn the xenos into a pile of bones and blood. Inwardly, he hissed. The Fell-Handed knew how to play risky games, and without anyone knowing it. If he was willing to use his Jarl to lure the kommando out, he must be trying to lure it out with this all-out assault. Where was that damn kommando?

 **+Terminators, deep strike,+** Bjorn commanded. There was a crack of light, and behind the orks Thorgil and his pack arrived.

“Bjorn, is this wise?” He asked as the heavy weapons turned the orks into mincemeat. “With Thorgil out on the field—“

 **+The kommando will come out to play,+** he said. **+All units, keep your eyes peeled for that kommando. He’ll be showing himself soon.+**

Helfist spun around, looking for a sneak attack.

“Easy there,” Aevar said. “Those orks will be coming soon enough.”

“I lost too many Claws to the bastard to be careless,” Helfist growled. He unslung his runic axe, holding it at the ready. “Come, let’s bash some ork skulls.”

“Gladly.”

“Got him!” The Stormwolf bellowed. Even in the middle of the battle, with Katla cracking with the wrath of thunder itself, the Stormwolf could be heard. “Come, coward, come and face your death!”

“Damn hummies, gimme yer teeth!”

“Claws, get it together, we need to support our Jarl!” Helfist said, decapitating one ork. “Bjorn!”

 **+I’m moving, don’t you worry,+** the Fell-Handed said, trudging behind the fight.

The Claws pushed on, pushing the orks back and back until the green skins broke and ran. The Claws, led by Wight, caught the retreating orks and butchered them.

There was a familiar rumbling from the sky. Aevar looked up, and saw drop pods streaking towards the ground.

“Looks like someone else decided to join the party,” he said.

The pods smashed into the ground with a resounding bang, their retro-thrusters only marginally killing their momentum. The doors fell to the ground, and a team of warriors left, hefting combi-bolters.

One-shot plasma- and melta- guns fired, cracking and turning the air to fire. A team of heavily armed nobs fell to the fire, their numbers cut in half as the plasma and melta guns burned limbs from limbs.

“Who’s pack markings are those?” Helfist asked. “Can’t see with all this ork blood in my eyes.”

“I’ll be a son of a whore,” Aevar laughed. “It’s the Old Wolf himself.”

“You’re joking. Our hides are worth that much?”

“Shit if I know. But that’s his markings.”

“Hear that, you dunderheads? We got the Old Wolf himself lending a hand! Fix up, look sharp! Wight, put on a damn grin, you’re looking like an Ultramarine with that damn stone face!”

From the atmosphere, two Stormwolf assault ships flew down, flanked by Stormfangs.

 **+Grimnar arrives,+** Bjorn said.

The assault ships roughly landed, dropping their hatches, and out from one came the Old Wolf himself. A mighty roar escaped his lips as he led a charge, and Aevar could see Arjac Rockfist biting at his heel as they charged a massive group of nobs.

“Whatever made Grimnar decide to come to us?” Aevar laughed.

“Shit if I know. Why don’t we ask him?” Helfist said. “Claws! To Logan!”

At the heels of the Fell-Handed, they charged forward, trying to get the the Old Wolf first. Arjac put the last nob down, and Grimnar strode forward, a dark look on his face.

“My king,” Helfist said, bowing.

“So, you decided to go out,” the High King of Fenris said.

 **+I grew tired of waiting,+** the Fell-Handed said. **+I needed to get out, stretch my legs.+**

The Stormwolf and his retinue were quick to arrive, bathed in blood.

“My king! What brings you here?” Bjorn said. “Not that we mind, it’s a great honor…”

“Seeing what you have unleashed here,” Logan said. “Have you tested that vile armor of yours?”

“We have,” the Stormwolf said. “You should see it, the orks can’t match it—“

“I’ll get a battle report when I ask for it,” Logan snapped.

“Of course,” Bjorn said, baring his neck.

“Let’s get these damn orks killed,” the Great Wolf snarled. “Where’s the warboss?”

“Slipped away again, the craven,” Bjorn hissed. “Pushed him and his kommandos back, then he slunk away like the spineless bastard he is.”

“Kommandos? Orks that sneak around? Haven’t heard of them much lately.”

**+They’re rare, and have hurt us plenty. But no more. We’ll end this Waaargh in one fell swoop.+**

The heavens seemed to part again, and more ships flew in.

“What’s this?” Logan said. “Have the guardsmen come to join us?”

“Those aren’t the guard,” Arjac said, scanning the horizon.

“Aye, those are Mechanicus sigils,” Aevar said. “Is the forge world stepping in to help?”

The ground shook, and from the ruins strode a red and silver Imperial Knight. A massive, super-heavy walker, it stood on two thin yet strong legs, stepping over most rubble with ease. Massive cloaks and banners hung from its nearly grotesquely large arms and tiny legs, heralds of its house, and those heralds bore the skull of the Mechanicus.

In one hand, it held a massive chainsword, while the other held a cannon. It aimed at the retreating lines of orks and opened fire, belching fire and death. Orks were tossed like rag dolls, and those that tried to assault the Knight were crushed beneath the massive weight of the chainsword.

“What the Hel is a Knight doing here?” Aevar said. “That sigil is the house of Taranis. It should be defending the forge world, not over-extending itself.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Logan said. “Let’s make sure they came here for nothing. Forward!”

The Claws bellowed, joining the charge. The ork lines were stretched thin with the arrival of Logan’s Great Company, but with the Imperial Knight, they were shattered. Orks were running away, and the Vlka all ran to catch them in their flight.

Aevar scanned the skies as they ran forward. More and more ships were entering the atmosphere; all of them were Mechanicus.

“What would make the forge world dedicate their forces at this time?” He said. “They sure as Hel waited a long time.”

“Maybe they found out we were getting rid of all these orks, and they had to get in on it,” Helfist said.

“The Mechanicus doesn’t care much about kill-tallies. They’re boring like that.”

“Well, how about you ask them when we’re done?”

“Something tells me I won’t like what they have to say.”

 

* * *

 

Shivvers ran, ducking and weaving through the rubble, the few remaining kommandos following him.

“Damn Space Marines. Damn hummies,” he grumbled. Finally, they came to a small ammo dump that still had a few roughly bolted-together planes.

“Oy, grab tha’ plane, we gonna get outta here,” Shivvers said.

“We runnin’, boss?” A mek-boy asked, dropping his tools.

“This Waaargh ain’t big enough fer some Space Marines,” Shivvers said. “We gotta—“

“So we runnin’? What kinda ork are ya ta run?”

The group of orks stopped and stared at Shivvers. What kind of ork ran from a fight?

“Th’ kinda ork who sees the need for an even bigger Waaargh, ya stupid gitz,” Shivvers snarled, advancing on the mek-boy. “Ya wanna fight ‘n die here? Go on ahead. You wanna get an even bigger Waaargh later? You wanna take out a whole buncha planets instead of just one? You wanna even bigger fight?!”

“Yea, what kinda ork hates bigger fights?” The mek-boy said. Every ork nodded; any true ork loved bigger fights.

“Then we gonna get outta here, ‘n find more boyz,” Shivvers said. “We gonna get ‘em together, ‘n we gonna start an even bigger Waaargh!”

“What if they don’t wanna follow us?”

“Then we beat ‘em upside the head until they realize that I’m the biggest and baddest ork there is!” Shivvers yelled. “We gotta Waargh ta put on, an’ we need more boyz fer it. So let’s get out there ‘n find more boyz!”

The orks cheered, anxious to get an even bigger Waargh put together.

“Come on, into th’ planes,” Shivvers shouted. “Come on, or this’ll be yer last Waaargh!”

 

* * *

 

The Mechanicus ships entered the atmosphere, and immediately disgorged troops. Aevar could see the robotic Skitarii troops assemble in battle lines and begin their relentless assault, their guns firing as they moved, never stopping. They chased down the retreating ork lines, electricity arcing from their weapons and frying the xenos.

 _“For Russ and the Allfather!”_ Logan bellowed.

 _“For Russ and the Allfather!”_ The chant echoed as they caught the retreating lines in their assault.

 _“Now this is a fight,”_ Helfist laughed.

 _“Aye, that it is,”_ Aevar said. Why would the Skitarii arrive? The forge world was under no direct threat, not for nearly a standard week; the Waaargh had yet to finish with this planet.

Finally, the orks were slaughtered to the man. The last ork fell to Logan’s mighty axe, and he held his hand up for his men to stop.

“Well met, priests of the Mechanicus,” he said to the advancing Skitarii. He spoke in perfect High Gothic. “Glad to see that we—“

“Surrender your forces,” a lead ranger spat.

“…Want to run that by me again?” Logan said, his eyes narrowing.

 **“Surrender your forces.”** This time, it was the massive Knight who spoke through its bullhorn. It spoke even louder than Bjorn. The Knight advanced, leveling it’s cannon at them. **“Surrender, or die.”**

“If this is how the Mechanicus says ‘thank you,’ I’ll never do anything nice for you again,” Grimnar spat.

 **+Grimnar, watch your tongue,+** Bjorn said. **+Brothers in the Mechanicus, why are you holding us at the end of your weapons?+**

“Are you hurt, mighty machine?”

From the ranks of the Skitarii came a gaggle of robed tech-priests, utterly ignoring the Vlka and hell-bent on reaching Bjorn as fast as possible. They fussed over the quick-patches to his hull and started working on mending it.

**+I’m well, tech-priests. Why are my brothers being held at weapon’s length?+**

“We will make sure they never touch your sacred chassis again,” the priests babbled, ignoring his every word. “Please, stand still so we can work.”

 **+What’s the meaning of this?+** Bjorn demanded.

 **“You are being held by Archmagos Slithin of the Cybernetica,”** the Knight bellowed, **“for profaning the sacred designs of the Omnissiah.”**

“What madness is this?” Logan demanded.

**“You have a snake among your numbers, the one you refer to as the Blasphemer.”**

No one turned to face him, but Aevar could feel their gazes on him as all talk came to a halt.

 _“Well, shit,”_ he sighed.

 **“We will take you, and this individual, to our ships where we will hold trial over your crimes,”** the Knight continued. **“Inquisitor Parsef has informed us that he will be joining us. Watch yourselves, Space Wolves, for your days are numbered.”**

 _“Bet the spineless bastard was waiting for this,”_ Helfist muttered in Juvik.

 _“Undoubtedly,”_ Aevar said. _“Well, might as well get this over with.”_ He stepped forward, ahead of the knight.

 **“Halt,”** the Knight said. Aevar suddenly had a clear view down the barrel of the cannon. **“Who are you?”**

“I am Aevar Ironclaws, Sky Warrior of Fenris, Son of Russ, and Iron Priest of Bjorn Stormwolf. I am the Siege Layer and Siege Breaker, and I am the one whom my brothers call the Blasphemer.”

 **“You surrender yourself to our authority?”** The Knight demanded.

“Aye, I do. I have but one request,” he said.

**“You do not get requests, _Blasphemer_.”**

“My kaerl was injured,” he said, ignoring the scything words. “She is being attended to by sister hospitallers. May I recover her, to see if she lives?”

The Knight tilted its massive head, as if it was thinking.

**“You speak of your assistant, are you not?”**

“Aye, I am.”

**“You’re not trying to hide her? Protect her from our judgment?”**

“You would’ve found her anyways. Not a lot of places for an off-worlder to hide here.”

**“Very well. Gather her, your trial will begin upon our arrival to the Inquisition’s vessel.”**

“Thank you.”

**“You will be guarded.”**

“Of course. She’s back at temple. Who is being summoned to this trial?”

**“Your lords, as well.”**

“Thank you. Well, no time like the present. Let’s get this done with.”

 

* * *

 

“Wake up.”

Maeva groaned and tried to roll over, but a massive hand stopped her.

“Wha--?” Hel, it felt like her mouth wasn’t working right. She nearly bit her tongue.

“Easy, that’s your new jaw you’re talking with. It’ll take some time to get used to it. That and you’re on a lot of painkillers.”

Maeva blinked and tried to sit up. Aevar was there, helping her. She gently ran her hand over her jaw. It was rock solid, but pain tap-danced along her skin despite the drugs they gave her.

“How do I look?”

“You’ll have some wicked-looking scars, that’s for sure,” Aevar said. “Gonna attract some rough men with that.”

“Fuck th’ men. I lost my arm; better get a whole harem a women fer this shit, yea?”

“So _that’s_ why you took that whole ‘take your tongue’ thing hard.”

“It’s my best part, yea?” She tried to laugh and ended up biting her tongue. Dammit all.

“That tongue landed you in a lot of trouble.”

“Landed me _in_ a lotta nice places too, eh?”

“You’d better watch your tongue if you ever want to go _anywhere_ again. We’re in a spot of trouble.”

“Damn, this is like talkin’ with a mouth fulla wool,” she grumbled. “Wha’ trouble ya talkin’ about, eh?”

“Someone let my new name slip to the forge world next to us. The Mechanicus are putting us on trial for profaning the holy Omnissiah’s body.”

“Tha’ someone bein’ tha’ Inquisitor?”

“I never said that.”

“Ya meant it.”

“I can’t say as to how you came to that conclusion,” he said. His eyes slowly traveled the room; they were being watched. “You’re my kaerl; you’re needed to stand trial with us.”

“Makes me feel special, yea?” Maeva groaned. She tried to get up, but forgot she lost one arm. She spun, but Aevar gently caught her. “Dammit all.”

“A blacksmith with one arm isn’t much help. We’ll make you a new arm, don’t you worry.”

“Least it was my off-arm; still got my fingerin’ fingers ta work with.”

“We’ll make you something special to replace those fingers.”

“Ya crazy, yea? Ya want somethin’ cold down there?”

“Who said they would have to be cold?”

She gave him a hard look.

“Now we’re talkin’,” she said, letting herself get helped up. The guards were giving them a healthy berth, either from Aevar being a Vlka Fenryka, or from them hearing his new name, she knew not. She was glad they were talking in their mother tongue. “Hey, if tha’ Geist around, let me know. Want ta make a good impression, yea?”

“You want to impress Geist? The same assassin that scared the shit outta you?”

“Have ya seen how lithe she looks, or th’ ass she has? I’m willing ta give tha’ a go, weird shit ‘n all.”

“Well, for what it counts, when you got the shit kicked outta you, she helped us carry you back,” Aevar said. “And she seemed pretty gentle with it.”

“Ha! Tha’s my in!”

She could barely take two steps without weaving all over the place. Aevar kept a solid hand on her shoulder, and they made their way out of the temple. Sure enough, that assassin was there, standing behind the shit-eating-grin Inquisitor.

“Damn him,” she hissed.

“What did I say about keeping your tongue?”

“Right, right, I’ll just think about what that Geist looks like under all that black suit ‘n all.”


	15. The Wolf, the Cog, and the Inquisition

Aevar realized he has never been on an Inquisition ship without being shot at. The last time he set foot on one it was during the Months of Shame, and the reception they got then was warmer than the one he got now.

The entire ship, the _Elusive Truth_ , was elegant, but dark. Nearly every single metallic surface in the room was made of polished brass; regal, but not buffed to shine. The floor was made of a dark, unreflective marble. And the table he stood before seemed like it was made from something that looked like redwood. Perhaps it was _real_ Terran redwood, too; the Inquisition loved their perks.

He assumed the massive room they were standing in was the dining hall. The redwood table in question was easily ten meters long, and looked like it was carved from one piece of wood; he couldn’t find any kind of seams to it. Massive, plush, high-backed chairs sat at each side, except for the end where he, Logan Grimnar, Bjorn Stormwolf, and Vermund Helfist stood, still in their armor. Fortunately, Archmagos Slithin allowed Maeva to sit. She tottered every so often, but seemed fully there.

At the end of the table was the Archmagos himself. Slithin was, as one of his rank and stature, far more machine than man. He had an immaculately detailed, ornate gold mask instead of a traditional face. He had replaced his original arms and added several flowing, delicate, ornate brass/gold arms. He wore flowing red robes with gold thread that have never seen a speck of dirt. Behind him was a team of electro-priests and Skitarii guards.

On his right was a man, dressed in red and silver finery and with a well-trimmed beard. He looked quite regal, and on his dress was emblem of the House Taranis; he was the pilot of the Imperial Knight.

Inquisitor Parsef sat next to Slithin, with Geist behind him. Somehow, the Inquisitor had gotten a team of Grey Knights; it was possible that they were tasked with guarding the Archmagos instead of attending to planetary defenses. Aevar buried the desire to growl; they were the Emperor’s Angels of Death, not the sitters of babes.

The Knights gazed at them, and Aevar felt an occasional glance fall on him. They were watching him in particular, and not just because he was called ‘the Blasphemer.’ Something about their gazes seemed curious, as if he was a novel puzzle instead of a latent traitor.

“Thank you all for being here,” Archmagos Slithin said through a voice box. It hardly sounded synthetic; Aevar had to really listen to hear even the slightest difference.

“Like we had much choice,” the Stormwolf said in Gothic, nodding to the numerous guards who would not hesitate to cut them down.

“Bjorn, hold your tongue,” Logan snapped. “This isn’t the place for one of your outbursts.” He turned to the Archmagos. “Forgive him. He is an excellent warrior, one of our best, but has little skills in the art of talking. It is our honor to be here.”

“Quite,” Slithin said. “We must thank you for your help with the filthy Ork menace. Without your timely arrival, our precious forge world would certainly be threatened, possibly even fallen. We cannot let such a loss occur, and for that, we are grateful.”

“Service is its own reward,” Logan said, bowing curtly.

“However, we received a very…troubling message from a tech-priest on Nebekenezer,” Slithin said. He waved a single golden arm, and a servo-skull floated up, activating it’s holographic projector. A shaky image materialized in the air. The pict-capture jerked wildly, capturing a ruined floor. Someone was holding a hand-held camera.

“T-this message is for Archmagos Slithin,” a man off-camera gasped. “Or anyone, _anyone_ who worships the mysteries of the Omnimissiah. You’ve got to come and help, please!”

The image stabilized, and Bjorn the Fell-Handed’s frame appeared. Iron Priests were climbing over his frame, working feverishly.

“These Marines…these _beasts_ , they’re profaning the holy will of the Omnimissiah! This dreadnaught was wounded, but they’re forcing it back onto the battlefield! They’re barely fixing it, just polishing it for more destruction! Oh, holy Omnimissiah, this was the only image I could get, what they’re doing to their poor Predators, Land Raiders, and bikes…it’s not holy, it’s not right!”

Aevar growled, but only for a second. He caught himself just as Logan and the Stormwolf did. He bared his neck in submission.

“A-and what they’re doing to their armor, changing it, breaking it…they have someone here, I could barely translate it; they have a Blasphemer at work for them. A Blasphemer! Soiling the sacred oils, a-and metals, and—I can’t even describe it! Oh, you must come! You must save the poor, abused machine-spirits!

“I don’t, I don’t know who is worse: the Orks for breaking the sacred design, or these beasts, these wolves, that revel in it! Please, help!”

The video ended, and the servo-skull floated away.

“You can imagine our shock upon receiving this,” Slithin said.

“Quite,” Logan said. “Forgive me for asking, Archmagos, but may we speak to the man who has accused us? I believe we have the right to see who has levied such a claim.”

“I understand your desires, but we cannot procure the priest,” Slithin replied. “Please understand that while the Orks are defeated, Nebekenezer is still quite disheveled. Said priest is probably in hiding, unsure of whom to trust.”

“I see. Then have your tech-priests found anything wrong with the way our brothers soothe the machine-spirit?”

“As of this moment, no, they have not. But there work is still ongoing. What we are more concerned with is this talk of the ‘Blasphemer.’ Your thane said this was his name, is it not?”

“That it has become,” Aevar said.

“A most…tasteless name, won’t you agree?”

“Aye, that it is.”

“Why have your brothers given you this name?”

Aevar sighed. “Where to start?”

“Start with your helping hand,” Slithin said, gesturing to Maeva. “She seems very worse for the wear. What happened to her?”

“She got in a slap fight with a nob.”

“’A slap fight with a nob?’”

“Aye, she did. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she’s good help.”

“Those are surgical scars, are they not?”

“They are,” Maeva said, tilting to one side ever so slightly. She barely got the words out in her fractured High Gothic.

“Ah, the helping hand speaks. What has your master done to you?”

“Got a new jaw, an’ a new skull from wha’ he says,” Maeva said. “An’ he’s gonna help build me a new arm ‘n eye.”

“Quite a lot of work for a non-tech priest.”

“She’s good help,” Aevar said.

“Apparently. This is just…unorthodox.”

“We appreciate our help, and give them help in return.”

“Archmagos Slithin, I appreciate the concern that we are showing the mortal woman, but we must stay focused at the matter on hand,” Parsef said. Maeva snorted and Aevar put a heavy hand on her shoulder, making her jump. “The Wolves are holding a blasphemer. Such a crime cannot go unpunished, especially if they are damaging the machine-spirits in their care.”

“We must agree with the Inquisitor,” Slithin said, turning back to the Vlka. “Why have you held onto this ‘Blasphemer?’”

“We were forced to,” Logan said tightly.

“Forced to? By whom?”

“By the eldest of us, the Fell-Handed.”

“Why would such an individual demand that a blasphemer be kept alive?”

“Because he is the oldest of us,” Logan said. “He fought with Russ himself.”

“He fought with your Primarch? What would your Primarch say if he found out you were holding rank with a blasphemer?”

There was a pounding on the ground, soft and muted.

“We can’t say what Russ would say; we are not him,” Logan said.

“And why—“

Archmagos Slithin was cut off, as the massive doors to the hall were forced open, and Bjorn the Fell-Handed himself barged into the room. The doors were barely taller than his frame; he had to stoop low to allow himself into the room. Pushing himself in, he broke off the pelt-standard that sat atop his frame. The Grey Knights were instantly at attention, ready to launch themselves at the attacker. A split second later the Skitarii had their weapons drawn.

 **+Damn small ship,+** he cursed. A team of tech-priests were at his feet, pricking, preening and floundering around him.

“M-m-most apologies, holy Archmagos,” one stammered, “but this revered dreadnaught insisted—“

**+I’m more than a simple dreadnaught. I demand to be heard.+**

“Is this the dreadnaught that was being serviced in the temple?” Slithin said.

**+I was. I’m Bjorn, called the Fell-Handed, Last of the Company of Russ.+**

“It is an honor, Bjorn. We are…”

 **+I have heard who you are,+** Bjorn said. He walked towards Aevar and Maeva, the priests following like a gaggle of gosling.

“Ah. This is good,” the Archmagos re-adjusted himself, pulling at his robes and motioning for the Skitarii to stand down. The Grey Knights, however, remained on guard; they were not his to command. “According to the High King of Fenris himself, your word alone has kept this Blasphemer alive. Why is that?”

 _“Mighty Bjorn, please, you can’t tell them,”_ Logan said, talking in their mother tongue. _“Not in the presence of an Inquisitor.”_

“My translation logic-engine is very good; if you wish to hide your intent, you are not doing a very good job,” Slithin said loudly. “What is it you are keeping from the Inquisitor?”

“Yes, what is it?” Parsef demanded.

 _“Please,”_ Aevar begged.

 **+The greatest rediscovery of the Imperium,+** Bjorn said.

 _“Bjorn, please,”_ the Stormwolf begged.

 **+I’ll _not_ remain silent when we have made such great strides,+ ** he said. Aevar’s hearts pounded in his chest. **+Thorgil, you may arrive.+**

There was a brilliant flash of light which heralded the arrival of Thorgil, still in his blood stained Cataphractii-patterned armor. All of the tech priests stared at it. Those with mouths had theirs hang open.

“You rang, milord?” Thorgil said with a deep chuckle.

“What, in the Emperor’s holy name, is that?” Parsef demanded.

“It is the armor that I made,” Aevar said.

“It’s…massive, I’ll give it that,” Parsef said. “But where is the Terminator Crux?”

“You’re familiar with Terminator armor?”

“I know enough about it to spot heretical armor. I am an Inquisitor, after all. It should have a Crux, else it is powered by daemons and chaos. Where is the Crux?”

“…It has none.”

“Heresy!” Parsef shouted. “Heresy, from the mouths of the Wolves! Your world will burn for this, mark my words!”

“How did you make that?” Slithin asked. He barely spoke; Aevar nearly missed him talk.

“I found the templates in the Emperor’s library,” Aevar said.

“You entered the Emperor’s library?” Parsef demanded, spouting fire and brimstone. “How heretical can you become? Only the Emperor should walk those halls, traitor! That suit has damned the soul of the man who wears it!”

Aevar ground his teeth; the Inquisitor was doing an excellent job grandstanding the Archmagos.

 **+No daemons live in it,+** Bjorn said. **+Ask your Grey Knights.+**

“What death-addled madness do you spout?”

“The dreadnaught, Bjorn, is right,” the leader of the Grey Knights tightly said. “There’s no taint of corruption on it, only a strange glow. The same strange glow that seems to radiate from the Blasphemer himself.”

“I throw my word behind the Grey Knights,” Helfist said. “As a seasoned druid, a talker of spirits, it does not bear the taint of chaos.”

“Quiet! It has no Crux!” Parsef demanded. “I’m declaring the Space Wolves a traitor Chapter, and your world shall be destroyed by exterminatus.”

“This armor…does it work?” Slithin asked.

“Damn well,” Thorgil said. “Butchered dozens of orks with this, and the sword.”

“There’s a sword?”

Thorgil drew his sword and placed it on the table. A tech priest scrambled up to it and brought it back to the Archmagos, bowing and scraping at the ground.

“Don’t touch that filthy thing,” Parsef said.

“This…can’t be filthy,” Slithin gasped. “This…can it be a Paragon blade?”

“It is,” Aevar said. “As best as I could make it, anyways. Most of the diagram was rotted from age. Had to fill in a lot of gaps.”

“And…it works?”

“Damn well,” Thorgil said.

“Archmagos, I cannot stand by and let these heretics pollute your senses,” Parsef said. “I’ll send a message to the fleet; the Wolves of Fenris will join their traitor brothers, either in the warp or in death.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

Parsef spun, staring at Slithin.

“These creations, Cataphractii-pattern armor and a Paragon blade, these are relics from beyond the Heresy. As an Archmagos of Mars, I cannot allow any harm to be done to these items, or to the man who created them.”

“What?”

“The Priests of Mars do not delete data. And you wish to delete the holder of this beautiful data.”

“But they’ve profaned the holy will of the Omnimissiah!”

“By re-creating lost technology, without the aid of an STC?”

“You cannot possibly want to study this monstrosity, can you?” Parsef sputtered.

“Your Grey Knights have said that there exists no corruption. And they are the masters of combating Chaos, are they not?”

“You…this traitor stands before you, and you _defend_ him?!”

“He offers us lost technology, untainted by chaos, and you wish to _destroy_ him?” Slithin shot back.

“I will not stand by and let this weed grow out of control!” Parsef shouted. “I’m evoking an order of exterminatus!”

“Very well,” Slithin said, leaning back in his chair. “You are an Inquisitor, and you hold that right.”

Parsef grinned at Aevar. He slowly drew Katla; he might not be able to stop all the Grey Knights, but he had to protect Maeva. Bjorn pulled himself up to his full height, clicking his lightning claw, and everyone readied themselves to fight the Knights, who formed ranks, ready to advance, lances held at the ready.

“Your days are over, traitors,” he snarled. “Go, run to the—“

“Inquisitor Parsef, I have a question for you,” Slithin said, cutting him off.

“What?”

“How will you carry out an exterminatus if you have no control over your ships?”

“…What?”

There was a mighty shake, from deep in the bowels of the ship. Gravity fluttered for a second, then the lights cut out. Seconds passed and the emergency lights flickered on, a dull red in the suddenly dark ship.

“What is the meaning of this?” Parsef demanded.

“I am an Archmagos of Mars, servant and protector of the Omnissiah. I cannot, and _will not_ , stand by and see these re-created relics be destroyed by an over-enthusiastic Inquisitor,” Slithin said. “As an Archmagos, I have ultimate authority over every Imperial ship, outranked solely by the Fabricator-General himself. And I have just shut your ship down, as well as the fleet you command.”

“You can’t do this!”

“As long as I move to protect the Omnissiah, I can do what I please. Every servitor and engine is now sitting, idle and unused, until you rescind the order of exterminatus. You don’t have to make up your mind as of this moment, Inquisitor; the air shouldn’t go stale until six days, nineteen hours, thirty-two minutes and fifty-nine seconds from now. What you need to worry about is for the orbit to decay, which my logic-engine says would take approximately four days, eight hours, fifteen minutes and seven seconds. Then your ship will fall into the planet’s gravity well.”

Archmagos Slithin stood from the high-backed chair, followed by the pilot of the Knight, the electro-priests and the Skitarii, and walked towards Logan.

“Chapter Master Grimnar, it appears that we are in need of a ship to carry us,” he said. “If there is space available, may we request a place on yours?”

Bjorn Stormwolf chuckled, then despite his best efforts, began to laugh. Helfist was quick to follow, and from there, even Logan couldn’t help himself.

“Aye, we’ll gladly take you!” The Old Wolf howled, slapping his armored knee.

“Excellent! And we also request Aevar Ironclaws, so we may fully question him.”

“But, but,” Parsef sputtered. Even in the low light, they could see his face burning. “He’s committing an act of blasphemy! Such tinkering are openings for daemonic possession!”

“Your Grey Knights say otherwise,” Slithin said. “There is no taint on these reforged relics, is there?”

The Knights paused, as if they were suddenly uncomfortable of being thrust into the spotlight.

“…No, only a strange glow,” they finally said.

“It still needs to be examined!” Parsef said. “There might be hidden corruption!”

“We have already examined it,” Helfist said. “There is no corruption.”

“If a trained, sanctioned psyker sees no ill with it—“

“Druid, lord,” Helfist corrected.

“Yes, if a ‘druid’ sees no ill, as well as Grey Knights, it must be clean,” Slithin said. “But, you do speak reason. Your Grey Knights will examine this relic with a fine-tooth comb.”

“And the others,” Thorgil said.

“There are others?” Slithin gasped.

“Aye, four more. And two more Paragon blades.”

“By the Omnimissiah…Brother Ironclaws, you are truly blessed.”

‘Blessed.’ Aevar nearly laughed. He was just some idiot child who found a way to make two things. He barely had a grasp on anything else. But he had to get better; he saw his wyrd laid before him. With three cards, his fate was sealed.

“As you say,” he made himself say.

“But he still profanes the will of the Omnissiah!” Parsef yelled. “There is no Crux!”

“The ancient Cataphractii-pattern suits had no use for them. Nor do the surviving armors in our care.”

“He could still be leading us to the path of damnation!”

“That, I highly doubt,” Slithin said. “I’m familiar with Brother Ironclaws, and can vouch for his purity.”

“You’re familiar with him?!”

“In name only. I was one of the many Archmagos who combed through his history and the histories of a plethora of other Tech Marines, and recommended him to travel to Terra, where he worked for nearly a standard year.”

“And _why_ was this Blasphemer allowed to Holy Terra?”

“By order of the High Lords of Terra  and the Adeptus Custodes, I cannot say.” He turned to Aevar. “I am aware that you were expelled on less then favorable terms, but your purity was never in question. The Grey Knights made sure that no corruption was brought into the Throne Room.”

“Thank you, Archmagos,” Aevar bowed. “I am deeply in your debt.”

“You may repay me by showing me how you have deciphered the secrets of the Omnissah.”

“You will not like it. The truth nearly destroyed me.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.” Slithin turned towards Parsef. “Inquisitor. Good day.”

Parsef ground his teeth.

“You’ll return control of my ship, and my fleet, if I rescind the order of exterminatus?”

“Of course. We are happy to work with the Inquisition, if certain accords are met.”

Parsef seemed in pain as he spoke, like he was passing a stone.

“Fine. I hereby rescind the order of exterminatus against the Space Wolves.”

“Most excellent.”

Slithin paused, mentally communicating with the ship’s mighty engines, and seconds later the main running lights turned on. The ship rumbled, shaking longer than the first time, and gravity tilted. A vox caster at Parsef’s hip began chattering loudly, as ships were suddenly able to communicate.

 _Inquisitor, what just happened?_ The vox cackled. _The servitors just stopped working. We lost all control of the ship!_

“Your ship is returned to your command,” Slithin said. “I’m happy we can come to a common agreement.”

“We still cannot simply take this on faith alone,” Parsef hissed. “The Inquisition still needs to examine these…new relics. They might not be chaos tainted, but they could draw others down the dark path.”

“The Inquisitor speaks the truth,” Slithin said. “After all, this is only one relic. Brother Ironclaws, we both will have to examine your creations.”

“I will need to examine their base on Fenris,” the Inquisitor said.

“Examine the Aett?” the Stormwolf bellowed. “No off-wordler has had the balls to even suggest to be let in--!”

“As the Archmagos said, the Inquisitor speaks the truth,” Grimnar said, cutting the Stormwolf off. “We shall have them examine whatever they want.”

“Most excellent,” Slithin said. “Brother Ironclaws, let’s away to examine these wondrous relics you made.”

“As you wish, Archmagos.”

“Chapter Master Grimnar, may we—“

“Please, call me Logan.”

“Of course. May we examine these relics on your ship?”

“Certainly!”

“Then let us away.”

Maeva stood up from her seat, tottered, and threatened to fall. Aevar leapt to her, but Geist, the assassin, made it to her first.

“Thank you,” Maeva said, smiling.

“This one is happy to help,” the assassin said. She gently handed her to Aevar, and he helped move her towards the door, where the Fell-Handed was scraping the floor, trying to get out. Maeva waited until they left before speaking.

 _“She likes me,”_ she smiled, speaking in her mother tongue.

_“She stopped you from falling.”_

_“I ain’t some tipsy tavern wench, yea? Did tha’ on purpose.”_

_“Your mortal whore trying to make a pass at that assassin?”_ Helfist laughed. “ _You really_ are _crazy.”_

 _“A true daughter of Russ,”_ Aevar laughed. _“Come on, let’s get you to bed. If the Archmagos is polite, we’ll get to work on your new arm and eye tomorrow.”_

 

* * *

 

Grimnar strode onto the bridge of the _Allfather’s Honour_ , a chuckle at his lips. The Stormwolf followed, two steps behind, with Aevar and Helfist two more steps further back.

 _“My ship is your ship,”_ he said to Archmagos Slithin in High Gothic. _“Please, make yourself at home.”_

 _“My thanks,”_ Slithin said, examining the bridge of the battle barge. _“And I must say, I am pleased that your ship adheres to Mechanicus standards, totems and runes aside.”_

 _“It takes great work to appear this brutal and brainless,”_ Logan said. _“So, where shall we take the Archmagos? Mars is a bit out of our way, unfortunately.”_

 _“Fortunately, we don’t have to report to the Fabricator-General at the moment,”_ Slithin said. _“Once at Fenris, we shall begin our examination of your dwellings, and talk with the Fabricator-General for his grand ruling.”_

 _“Excellent!”_ Logan said. _“You heard the Archmagos, we’re going home.”_

Kaerls and servitors jumped to their tasks of preparing the ship, and the fleet, for the return home.

“Begging your pardon, Grimnar,” Aevar said, whispering in Juvik, “but why did you travel all the way out to—“

Grimnar silenced him with a fierce glance. Aevar bared his neck minutely, but respectfully.

 _“Kaerls, show the Archmago and his priests to their chambers,”_ Logan said jovially. _“Make sure they are comfortable, warm, and fed. Give them anything they desire.”_

_“Right away, sire.”_

_“I like to personally prepare my ship for travel,”_ Logan smoothly lied to the Archmagos. _“May we talk once we are all settled in?”_

 _“Of course,”_ Slithin said, nodding deeply. He either believed the lie, or simply didn’t care.

 _“Sire, we’re receiving word from the_ Ellusive Truth, _”_ a kaerls said, _“they want to accompany us.”_

 _“Surely they wish to see our devoutness firsthand,”_ Logan said. _“Very well. Let’s get them incorporated to the fleet. Archmagos, I will talk with you shortly.”_

 _“My thanks, Chapter Master Logan,”_ Slithin said. He turned and left with a group of kaerls, along with his tech priest entourage. The door slid silently behind them and Aevar waited for the other shoe to drop.

“This has been quite the interesting voyage,” Logan said darkly, his humor gone in an instant.

“Aye, that it has, sire,” Aevar agreed.

“Begging your pardon, sire, but Aevar is right,” Helfist said. “This was a small ork uprising. It hit hard, yes, but it was still small. Was it necessary to travel out to us?”

“Because I was worried that word might slip that we have a Blasphemer with us,” Logan said. “And I was right.”

“Logan, you can’t expect us to play guardians of the hearth forever,” the Stormwolf rumbled. “We were stuck there for over a Great Year. A Great fucking Year! And that’s without any good injuries that keep us licking our wounds.”

“You were training your pups. That takes time.”

“Aye, we were, but for a Great fucking Year?”

“Quiet your tongue, I heard you the first time,” Logan snapped. “You think I _wanted_ to keep you in the Aett? I know how much you need to get out and stretch your legs. But with our dear Blasphemer, can you blame me for wanting to keep you from prying eyes?” He turned to Aevar. “Without your damn picking and prodding, your damn searches and hunts, you’d be able to walk around a free man. But you had to look, you had to bring this…this Imperial Truth to us, to destroy us!”

“Sire, please, the Fell-Handed said—“

“I know what the fucking Fell-Handed said, Helfist! You think I need you to remind me? Dammit all, we nearly had the Inquisition declare us a traitor Legion. We nearly had the entire might of the Imperial Navy knocking on our door! If it wasn’t for the Mechanicus and their tech boner, we’d be a Chapter without a home world. We’d might as well sell our souls and make our living in the warp! All because of you!”

Aevar took the lashing, bracing himself for the worst. Bjorn might have ordered his life to be spared, but a Vlka Fenryka’s temper and patience was something that should never be tested. Walking on thin ice was surely safer.

“But we _do_ have the Mechanicus on our side,” Helfist said, risking an intervention. “We have them and their tech lust. They’ve kept the Inquisition at bay, and we even have better armaments for it.”

“But for how long? The Mechanicus could see how Ironclaws made this shit, and pull their support! We’re betting on which way the wind blows, and we all know how fucking stupid that is. And even if the Mechanicus stays on our side, we have to let the fucking Inquisition into Fenris. You think I _wanted_ to let them in? I had to, else the Mechanicus might leave our asses hanging in the breeze! Who knows what those bastards would try to do when they have the keys to our home?

“By the Throne, do you know what is this costing us, Ironclaws? To know that all we ever stood for is a lie? That all we believed, all we fought for, was for nothing?”

Aevar couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth of the Imperial Cult, of who started it.

“We used to stand for something, now we have nothing to stand for.”

“So we’ll find something new to stand for,” Helfist pleaded. “We might not be able to fight for the Imperium, but surely we can still fight for humanity. Can’t we?”

“Vermund speaks the truth,” Bjorn Stormwolf said. “We’re not traitors; we still fight for humanity.”

“It’ll have to be,” Logan sighed. He shook his head. “You have no idea what kind of damage you’ve done, Ironclaws. None. Ulrik has been in the Aett counseling and re-building the ranks of our faithful, who thanks to you, are suddenly directionless! It’s too tall an order for any of us, even Ulrik.

“And Stormcaller has been locking himself in his chambers for longer and longer stretches of time, searching the runes and the wyrd for something to prove you wrong, or anything to prove you right. He’s losing touch with reality, along with a number of our brothers. We are unmoored, thanks to you.”

Grimnar circled Aevar, staring barely-restrained death at him.

“Why couldn’t you keep your revelations to yourself?” He hissed. “Save us all the headache.”

“The Emperor showed me something,” he said. “I felt it in my bones, saw it in the cards and runes. I can’t stay silent when shown such—“

“’The Emperor?’ Are you turning into an Ultramarine? Is something wrong with ‘Allfather?’”

“…It carries too heavy a superstitious tone,” Aevar mumbled. “The Truth nearly broke me. No, it _did_ break me. But I can’t go back to living in the universe blinded, now that my eyes are open. The Emperor showed me a path that I must take, and that’s all I can do.”

“It is in his wyrd,” Helfist said. “I cast the bones myself.”

“And like a true Son of Russ, you couldn’t back down from the challenge,” Logan grunted.

“Aye, that is right.”

Grimnar finished his pacing, but his gaze had yet to soften.

“We can’t back down from a challenge, that’s for damned sure,” he said. “But it doesn’t mean we have to like you for it. Go back to your kaerl. Get her fixed up. And pray, or do whatever it is you do now, that the Mechanicus doesn’t change their mind once they see you profane their Omnissiah. ‘Cus once they turn on us, we might as well turn traitor.”

Logan turned his back on Aevar, a sign that he wanted nothing more to do with him. Aevar kept his mouth shut as he left the bridge. He was surprised to hear two feet pounding on the metal ground behind him. Helfist and the Stormwolf were following.

“Going to rub this in?” He asked.

“I was going to thank you for saving us,” the Stormwolf said, “ _then_ I was going to rub this in.”

“My Jarl is kind. I think.”

“Do you think the Mechaicus will keep the Inquisition off our backs?” Helfist asked.

Aevar’s pause was slight, but it was the answer they were all thinking.

“As long as they get their ancient tech, we should be in the clear,” he said, full of bravado. “Like the Old Wolf said, the Mechanicus popped a tech-boner. As long as the tech is good, they’ll make sure the Inquisition plays nice.”

 

* * *

 

Parsef stormed through the Space Wolf ship, Geist behind him, quiet like a shadow. Three blessedly short days of warp travel brought them to Fenris, but did little to sweeten his mood, or heal his pride. The Archmagos sided with the traitorous wolves. And spat in his face!

“Dammit, those beasts will pay,” he grumbled. “They’ll learn to bend the knee.”

“This one carefully reminds you that we are on a hostile ship,” Geist said. “They could be eavesdropping on us.”

“And learn what, that we hate them?” Parsef snapped. “They’ve know that since the First War of Armageddon. It’s nothing new.”

“As you say,” the assassin said. “May this one ask a question?”

“What is it?”

“What are we doing on the Wolf’s ship?”

“Now that we’re at Fenris, I want to make one thing abundantly clear to this Blasphemer; he cannot hold anything back from us, else face the consequences.”

“This one understands, but she would say that a vox message would—“

“Not serve the same purpose. It’s not what has to be said, it’s _how_ it’s said that the message is conveyed.”

Finally, Parsef heard the sound of metalworking. He opened the bulkhead, and was greeted with a large forge with dozens of high-raised tables, open blast furnaces, mindless servitors and miscellaneous items that were being repaired.

Tech marines labored away, repairing armor and arms. A few looked up from their work, but paid him no heed. Servitors looked at them with empty eyes. Scanning the room, he found the Blasphemer.

He was working on a replacement cybernetic arm with his armless kaerl. They seemed mostly done, and were carefully welding pieces together. Parsef stormed over.

“Blasphemer,” he spat.

“What? I’m a little busy,” the Space Wolf said.

“Not for an Inquisitor.”

“So you say.”

“Are you listening?” Parsef shouted.

The tech marine’s servo-arms spun down, and he loomed to his full height. His kaerl assistant stood up, eying him coldly. Then her gaze drifted to Geist. If Parsef was paying attention, he’d see her smile and wink her new small, cybernetic eye.

“What can we do for you?” Ironclaws said.

“Once we enter orbit, I’m ordering that I examine everything that you claim is your own,” Parsef said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, ‘oh.’ I’m an Inquisitor. I seek out corruption and the fallen, and I pull up weeds. And I plan to make sure that there’s not one bit of corruption that I find on your planet, or Emperor help me, I _will_ burn your world to ash.”

“I’m sure of it,” the heretical marine said. “I’m also sure that you’ll find nothing of note, aside from mjod, blood, sweat, tears and the occasional Fenrisian wolf lurking around a corner.”

“Are you threatening me?” He demanded, glared at the marine.

“What? Of course not, I’m just warning you that strange beasts have been known to roam the Aett. Blood Claws go missing every so often,” the heretic said. “You’ll have a guard on you at all times, but those beasts have been known to take sizable risks. Hunger makes you do strange things.”

Parsef knew a threat when he heard one.

“I’m sure of it,” he snarled. “Cooperate, or it will look very bad on you.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” the marine said. “May I? I’m in a very delicate part of this build.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a blood sacrifice?” He spat.

“Already performed one. Good thing we’re almost home; our remaining stock of sacrificial virgins is running dangerously low.”

“Heretic, you dare—!”

Then Parsef realize the marine was smiling under his rough beard, laughing that he was able to get under his skin. Seething, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

“Geist, we’re getting off of this infernal ship,” he spat. Suddenly he felt very tired.

“You order, this one obeys,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Aevar watched the Inquisitor leave the workshop.

“You done giving that assassin the eye?” He asked in Juvik.

“Just sizin’ her up, seein’ if she bites,” Maeva said.

“Never mind the fact you can’t see her eyes.”

“So it’s a challenge, yea? Wouldn’t be my first one,” she smiled. “Is my arm done? Wanna try it out.”

Aevar picked it up, giving it one final look over. It was brushed to a perfect shine, fresh to be used and bruised. Maeva lifted her shirt up, revealing the metal socket that he’d implanted in her two days ago. She had fought bitterly when she heard that they had to cut off the rest of her arm, but ultimately relented. He slid the ball joint into the socket, and his servo-arms sealed it tight, attaching the metallic shoulder blade and connection wires.

“This part might feel a bit weird,” he said.

“Ghaaaaaaa…!”

“See? Weird.”

“Hel’s Teeth, this thin’ is cold,” Maeva gasped. Her arm, receiving new signals, tried to move. Aevar held it still.

“Don’t move, everything’s adjusting. It’s past the boot step, now it’s syncing up with the logic-computer in your head.”

“Fuck, feels like damn knives are stabin’ me,” she yelped.

“Just the nerves reconnecting, let it pass.”

“Dammit, get it off, get it off!”

Her new fingers flexed, splayed out in all directions, then tightened into a fist. Aevar held her fast, but her arm was suitably strong. He grunted with exertion, not just to keep the arm pinned, but to keep it pinned without bending or damaging the arm. Finally, it all stopped.

“Oh, there we go,” Maeva said. “Damn, this is much better.”

He let go, and Maeva spin her new arm around in a pinwheel. It moved, nearly perfectly silent.

“A bit heavy, yea?”

“You’ll get used to it. Best thing, too? You did most of it.”

“With ya tellin’ me wha’ I’m doin’ wrong, yea?”

“Baby steps, Maeva. You’ll get the hang of it. Besides, this makes you better with machines, and you need all the practice you can get.”

“First th’ damn new eye, now a damn new arm. Next thin’ ya know, I’ll be a right proper Iron Priest.”

“Least we’re not the Iron Hands. Those guys have a hard on for amputation and cybernetic replacements.”

“Yer shittin’ me.”

“Hel no. ‘The Flesh is Weak!’ You should see them; far more iron than man.”

“Shit, now I’m glad this eye’s just a small little thin’. Hate ta be walkin’ ‘round with some big piece a metal mounted ta th’ side a my head.”

“Just don’t go getting that eye popped. Put a lot of work into making it look natural.”  He policed his work station, putting loose tools away. “Come on, we’re heading down to the Aett. The Stormwolf wants a feast as fast as possible.”

“Fer killin’ orks?”

“That, and a possible last meal. The Inquisitor wants us all dead, and he might find something that could give him the authority he needs.”

“Th’ only thin’ heretical is yer stuff, ‘n th’ Mechanicus say it’s okay.”

“The Inquisition never let the facts get in the way of the truth,” he said. “Come, eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we might be branded traitors.”

“Think I’ll slit my own throat if we make a run fer th’ warp,” Maeva spat.

“You do that.”

“An’ wha’ ‘bout ya?”

“If we get branded as traitors, I won’t make it a step out of the Aett. If the Inquisition comes knocking, Bjorn’s word doesn’t mean shit. My thread is as good as cut.”

 

* * *

 

The mead hall was filled with both the Stormwolf’s company, as well as Grimnar’s troops. Kaerls were running, serving both other kaerls and the Vlka. Mead and mjod was spilled in great amounts, and the air sizzled with the smell of cooked meat, fire- and grease- smoke, great boasts and drunken ramblings, and of course loud roars.

But despite of it all, the mood was tense, on edge, and no amount of drink could ease it. Grey Hunters and Long Fangs would sniff every passing by kaerl; some stealthily, some overt. Word of the assassin had them fearing that she would attempt to infiltrate the sacred hall. Blood Claws roared, boasted, and heckled the kaerls, but it was all forced.

Grimnar’s Rune Priests were there, but they did not share the celebration. Stormcaller was noticeably absent. Those that came ate quietly, shooting glares at Aevar when they could. Grimnar’s Kingsguard and the Stormwolf’s Jarl Guards were equally somber, but with at occasional peel of laughter breaking from them. And of the Jarls themselves, only the Stormwolf was loud and boisterous. But like the Claws, it was forced.

Aevar looked from his plate to his gathered brothers and sighed. He wished he could pray; his stomachs were in knots, twisting and turning with each breath. Even the Angels of Death feared turning traitor. 

“Quite a feast, huh?” Helfist asked. He was still the only one who would sit next to him. Even the other Rune Priests feared Aevar’s wyrd, despite whatever ‘glow’ they saw about him.

“Can’t say I’ve seen one quite like it,” Aevar said. “And I wouldn’t mind not seeing it again.”

Helfist grunted his agreement.

“Is that why you’re eating so slow? Trying to savor every bite?”

“Tell the truth,” Aevar said, “I’m not hungry. Nerves are a bit frayed.”

“Aye, I know that. The first off-worlders to barge in on the Aett in millennia. Shit, this has to be the first time an Inquisitor was able to worm their way in here. At least the Grey Knights gave us a night to prepare.”

“You mean a night to have that assassin examine our defenses.”

“Guess I do mean that,” Helfist said. “She said she would work on her disguise so she doesn’t smell like an off-worlder; think she found a way?”

“If anyone could, it’ll be an assassin. But we’ve only had three days of warp travel; I’m not sure that’s enough time to trick all of our noses.”

“Parsef isn’t gonna wait for the day to break.”

“He can try to force his way, but he knows his rank isn’t good here,” Aevar said. “We’ll have to see and hope.”

“What about praying?”

Aevar bit his tongue. He talked about the full measure of the Imperial Truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to shatter Helfist’s faith any further, to tell him who made the Creed. His own was in tatters, and if Grimnar wasn’t exaggerating, the entire Chapter was pulling itself apart.

“Let’s just say that I’ve moved beyond praying.”

“I don’t want to know by what you mean by that,” Helfist said. After a heartbeat, he hoisted his flagon. “To the future. May Russ look down on us, and deliver us from the Inquisition.”

“Here, here,” Aevar said, raising his. They toasted in silence, ignored by their brothers.

 

* * *

 

Aevar paced along his chambers, waiting for Parsef and the Grey Knights to examine his dwellings. Every so often, he’d shoot a glare at the Cataphractii armor that stood in the middle of his chambers. That damn thing was the cause of everything. No, not the armor, it was all him. Him and his damned hunt for the truth.

There was a slight knocking at his door. He opened it, and Maeva pulled herself into the room.

“You took your time. Was beginning to worry that you weren’t coming.”

“Ha! ‘Comin!’ Ya don’t have ta worry ‘bout _tha’_ ,” she slurred, nearly staggering.

“You’re still drunk.”

“Na, don’t think so. Well, maybe, yea? Just fuckin’ tired.”

“Got the smell of a woman on you, too. I take it you found someone to break your dry spell?”

“Oh, ya got tha’ right,” Maeva laughed. She looked at her new cybernetic hand. “I don’t know who’s gonna wear out these fingers; me ‘r my conquests. Ya said these things got warm, but ya never told me they vibrated, eh?”

“Figured it’d make a nice surprise.”

“Oh, _Hel yea_ it made a big surprise. I ain’t jokin’ ‘bout wearin’ ‘em fingers out.”

“Well, if they turn into metal nubs, you know how to fix it.”

The door was pushed open, and a fully-armored Grey Knight strode in. Maeva jumped, moving out of the way.

 _“You are Aevar Ironclaws,”_ the Knight said in Gothic.

_“Aye, I am.”_

_“You are his assistant, Maeva.”_

_“Yea, tha’s me.”_

The Knight stood, holding his lance casually, but still ready to move. Another Knight entered, along with Parsef.

 _“Wha’, no assassin?”_ Maeva asked.

 _“Geist is examining the Aett,”_ Parsef snapped. _“Hate to disappoint you.”_

Aevar nudged Maeva. To a fellow Sky Warrior, it was a simple bump. To a mortal, it packed a wallop.

 _“Er, tha’s good,”_ she said. _“Gives me th’—“_

 _“Is this everything in your dwellings?”_ Parsef demanded.

 _“It is,”_ Aevar said. _“I did most of my building here. I used the Company’s forge only later on.”_

 _“Then this is the root of this…blasphemy,”_ Parsef said.

 _“And the source of this rediscovery.”_ Aevar was surprised when Slithin walked in, flanked by tech priests and Skitarii guards.

_“Archmagos.”_

_“Brother Ironclaws.”_

_“I assume you’ll be following us around as we work,”_ Parsef said to the machine man.

_“Of course. I need to make sure you don’t commit any crimes against the Omnissiah as you work to root out corruption.”_

_“Very well,”_ Parsef said. _“Aevar Ironclaws, you stand accused of speaking heresy. If you pause in your confession, if you withhold evidence, if you lie, you will be cut down. Do you understand?”_

_“Aye, I do.”_

_“Get your mortal assistant out of here; she is not the root cause of this.”_

“Looks like you won’t have to mind your tongue, Maeva,” Aevar said, switching to Juvik. “Get out of here.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, mock-curtsying for Parsef. She left, ducking under a Grey Knight and left Aevar’s room. Outside were two more Grey Knights, a team of Skitarii and a pack of Sky Warriors. Helfist stood at the head of the group. “Great. Just great. Wha’s a crazy mortal whore ta do?”

“How’s old man Ironclaws doing?” Helfist asked.

“Well, it just started, so pretty good, I think, yea?”

“Starting is the worst part.”

“I heard startin’ is th’ easiest.”

“It can be both.”

Maeva snorted.

“I’m steppin’ out fer some air.”  She walked down the tunnels of the Aett, and nearly tripped over another kaerl as she turned a corner.

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s fine,” the kaerl said, doing her best not to spill a bucket of water.

“They got ya cleanin’?”

“The Inquisitor wants things clean, so clean he’ll have it.”

“Ha! Got tha’ right! They’re all ‘bout tha’ spick ‘n span shit, eh? Probably get hard lookin’ at clean shit, yea?”

“I-I wouldn’t,” the kaerl stammered, brushing her long hair back. “Inquisitors are powerful; we shouldn’t anger them.”

“Ya kiddin’? I mean, yea, they could exteminatus us, but it won’t be easy.”

“We need to keep them in good spirits. We need to clean up, make ourselves presentable. Hide what needs to be hid.”

“Wha’, hide all th’ dust ‘n shit? Come on, we all know it’s a shit job, don’t take it seriously, yea?”

“We have to keep the Space Marines in good standing. If the Inquisitor finds anything, he’ll do bad things to us.”

Maeva looked at the kaerl. She was small, thin, and scared. What kind of Fenrisian was cowed by the Inquisition?

“Ah, I get it,” she grinned. “Didn’t recognize ya, Geist.”

The woman scowled.

“This one was exceptionally careful with her disguise,” she said, breaking from the kaerl’s little whimpering to her regular, neutral voice. “How did you recognize her?”

“Tha’s a trade secret,” she grinned, wagging a finger. “I’ll let ya know this: we don’t call ‘em ‘Space Marines.’”

“This one understands and will adapt her disguises.”

“So, ya here ta spy on us, yea?”

“That was the order this one was given.”

“Here, how ‘bout this: I’ll show ya ‘round, so ya don’t go embarrassin’ yerself, an’ ya tell me ‘bout yerself, yea?”

“Why would you ‘show this one around’ when she was sent to infiltrate your ranks?”

“Well, a little bird told me ya helped carry me back all gentle-like when I got th’ shit pounded outta me by tha’ warboss—“

“It was a nob.”

“Fuckin’ fine, by a _big_ nob,” Mavea groaned. “Anyway, figure I owe ya fer tha’. Y’know, a favor fer a favor, ta show ya my gratitude an’ ta get ta know ya better.”

“This one could always lie. Are you not upset by that?”

“Sounds like a game tha’s got a challenge ta it.”

“This one understands. She will do her best to mislead you.”

“If I can see through yer disguise, I think I could spot a few lies.”

“This one doubts it.”

“An’ knock it off with the ‘this one’ crap, yea? Yer real pretty, but it gets a spot bothersome, yea?”


	16. The Wolf, the Cog, and the Inquisition

The Grey Knights stood around a forge, one of the many in the Aett. But this was yet another forge that Aevar had used, making it of imperative to Parsef’s investigations.

The psykers stood, examining everything that he had laid out. Every tool, every die, every scrap piece of paper that wasn’t incinerated by the servitors. If Aevar had to say one thing about the Inquisition, they were thorough. And they took their sweet time, too; they were working for nearly three days straight. With their gene-enhanced bodies, the Astartes were none worse for the wear.  The mortal tech priests and kaerls, however, didn’t have that advantage. They were all dead on their feet.

But despite the bags under his eyes, Inquisitor Parsef was still alert. Aevar had to give him credit.

“This place is clean,” the lead Knight said.

“Are you sure?” the Inquisitor demanded.

“I find myself agreeing with the wolves the longer this investigation goes on,” the Knight said. Aevar could hear it in his voice; the Knight was getting annoyed. Bored, tired, and annoyed. “Runes of aversion, warding and blessings have been carved into the very rock of the Aett, and at common intervals. By themselves, they are nothing. But together, they contain a vast amount of power.”

“Damn right,” Helfist said. “We’ve been carving them into the Aett since Russ walked the planet.”

“They must have. The amount of power in this place is staggering. If even the slightest amount of corruption is present, it would be blocked from entering. And even if by some twisted miracle it _does_ enter, its presence will be immediately known. I have not felt this secure since my time stationed on Holy Terra. The only ‘strange’ thing we can find is the glow that emanates from Ironclaws and his creations. It is a blessing; a very unique, powerful blessing that we have neither seen nor heard of.”

“And the…things he has created?” Parsef pressed.

“We agree, they fly in the face of nearly everything that the Mechanicus teaches,” Slithin said. Even his synthetic voice sounded tired. “But, as the Grey Knights can attest to, they are clean. Walking blasphemies, yes, but also re-created, dead technology. We can…come to an agreement with them; make adjustments where needed.”

“This mad wolf can’t be clean, he has broken—“

Parsef stopped, taking a deep breath. His shoulders sagged, undoubtably the long hours  were catching up to him. He was tired, and looked strangely old even though he couldn’t be more than forty. Did he have a few rejuvenation surgeries?

“Very well. My initial investigation has concluded that Aevar Ironclaws has not summoned the fell powers from the warp to complete his re-building.”

Aevar did his best to not grin. Seeing the Inquisitor in pain from passing those words was enough.

“But, that does not absolve him of his duties as a chosen Space Marine of the Emperor,” Parsef continued. “There is always the possibility that a daemon has been attracted to his tinkering, yes?”

“The possibility always exists,” the Grey Knight said. “Even on Terra there is always the possibility, no matter how slim, that—“

“Therefore,” Parsef said, cutting the Knight off, “I shall stay with him and the Space Wolves to ensure there continuing purity.”

Aevar felt like tearing his hair out. But he had to admin, it was a good dig. The Stormwolf , however, was less graceful.

“We have to put up with you following us for…!” He was stopped by Logan.

“We agree to your terms,” the Great Wolf said. “It smacks of truth and wisdom. We will be glad to have you.”

“Will you? Really?” Parsef said, glaring at the Stormwolf. “It doesn’t matter. I will make arrangements to be permanently stationed with ‘Brother’ Ironclaws here.”

Parsef stalked off, followed by the Grey Knights.

“Brother Ironclaws, this tour has been most insightful,” Slithin said. “Armed with nothing but your wits and will, you have created new relics. I shall let the Fabricator-General know that you are a true servant of the Omnissiah.”

“My thanks, Archmagos,” he said, bowing. “What shall be our next step?”

“I shall pass my rulings to the Fabricator-General, and await his decree. Then, things shall become rather interesting.”

“I shall wait with bated breath.”

“Excellent. I shall return to my chambers to begin the report. And Chapter Master Logan, my thanks for my excellent quarters. They are quite warm, and very comfortable.”

“We are glad that they are to your suiting,” Logan smiled. “May we summon you when a meal is ready?”

“Of course. Your hospitality to the servants of the Omnissiah shall be noted.”

Slithin nodded curtly, and a kaerl escorted him and his Skitarii to their quarters.

 

* * *

 

“Well, that went well,” Helfist said. With the Archmagos gone, they could speak in Juvik.

“Aye, it actually did,” Logan said. “Getting the Grey Knights on our side was a boon. Like we could ever track heresy in here.” He turned to Vermund. “Follow Parsef. He’ll probably want to try and worm his way around the Aett, maybe try to grill the Fell-Handed.”

“My Claws are already following him,” Helfist said. “Nice, easy, and in the open. Just to remind him of where he is, and who we are.”

“Excellent. Ironclaws, you did good.”

“Thank you, Jarl.”

“And by ‘good,’ I mean not getting us branded as heretics.”

“I figured, but didn’t want to assume.”

“Go, talk to the Fell-Handed, see what the Eldest has in store for us.”

“As you order,” Aevar said. He took his leave, taking a kaerl’s way through the Aett to avoid the off-wordlers. The kaerl’s way was a series of smaller tunnels that ran parallel to many hallways, to help keep the hallways clear for the Vlka. He passed kaerls, who bowed as he passed, and nearly ran over Maeva.

“Well, fancy meeting you here,” he said.

“Wha’? Oh, yea, ya Sky Warriors don’t take this pathway much,” she said, brushing her ruffled, tangled hair back. She had the smell of another woman on her.

“Again? You’re putting your tongue and fingers to good use.”

“Oh, ya wouldn’t believe it,” Maeva smiled. “I found tha’ assassin.”

“And how, pray tell, did you find a Callidus assassin?”

“Well, she looked Fenrisian, but she practically worshiped th’ Inquisition. Stood out like a sore thumb, yea?”

“You didn’t tell her that, did you?”

“Hel no, think I’m stupid, eh?” She snapped. “Thought it’d be better ta know where she went ‘n been, so I’ve been showin’ her ‘round th’ past couple a days. Gave her a few other thin’s, too;  a hug here, a caress there, even stole a kiss, an’ next thin’, wouldn’t you know it, bam!” She slid her fingers together in a scissoring motion.

“Well, now that you dipped your fingers in that assassin, how is she?”

“Lithe an’ strong an’ _sexy_. Ya should see her scars. Little too pale, but no one’s perfect, eh?”

“Shit, ain’t that the truth.”

“An’ she wouldn’t take her mask off, fer some reason.”

“More than I needed to know.” He paused, then grinned. “You like tumbling with her?”

“Th’ fuck ya think?”

“Why don’t you keep up at her? See if you can get something from this other than a fuck and a pelt on your wall.”

“Wha,’ ya mean spy on her?” Maeva said. “I’m a crazy mortal whore, but I ain’t no spy.”

“Which is why it’ll work. Geist will think you’re just looking to fuck, not to get information from her. Maybe she’ll mention something when you’re pillow talking.”

“Tha’s stupid.”

“Said the woman who got in a slap fight with a nob.”

“Yea, yea, rub it in, why don’t ya?” She said hissed, rubbing her cybernetic arm. “Alright, I’ll see what I can get out of her. Nice an’ patient, yea?”

“That’s good,” Aevar grinned.

“So what’s the plan now?”

“You’re not the only one who has to be patient. We’ll see what the Fell Handed says, and what the Mechanicus has in store for us.”

 

* * *

 

Parsef stormed to his borrowed chambers, heaving the door open and slamming it shut. The door was thick and heavy; hard to move, but when he slammed it, it heartily rang.

“Damn those wolves,” he snarled. “Damn them to the depths of the warp.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device. Whispering a prayer of activation, he turned the power on. The device emitted electronic noise, so any prying eyes would see snow and hear static. The wolves weren’t as well-versed in shadow tactics as he was, but it never paid to be careful.

Parsef paced the room, weighing his options.

“If the Mechanicus can be torn from them, no one will stand with them,” he muttered. “But how to get rid of the Mechanicus when they’re fawning over those…those _things_ he made?”

He nearly had them at Nebekenezer. He had them trapped, perfectly, but that damn dreadnaught, the damn Archmagos, the damn fucking wolves! They needed to recognize who was the true power in the Imperium, they needed to be knocked down from their high-horse before they fell to chaos, but the chance to get them to bend the knee had passed. He needed to start planning for the future.

There was a knock at the door, and he walked over, pulling it open.

“Tea, milord?” A Fenrisian woman said, holding a tea pot on a tray. Parsef sniffed it; it was ginger tea, and he could smell the honey. Only one person knew his favorite tea, and how to prepare it the right way.

“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Please, come in.”

The woman nodded, and he let her in. Once the door was closed, the woman’s skin rippled as Geist undid her disguise.

“What did you find?” He said, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“This one’s initial reconnaissance was a failure,” she said. “The native Fenrisians are able to spot importers from mannerisms. She will need more time to craft a better disguise.”

“You’ve had three days to work,” Parsef said, sitting down to enjoy his tea. “How much of a set-back was this?”

“This one was able to salvage her mission by following the Fenrisian Maeva. She has learned some of the layout of the Aett, as well as some of the mannerisms of the kaerls.”

“Better than nothing. You said you followed Maeva? That’s the Blasphemer’s assistant. Did you find anything out about her?”

“She…is an nice woman,” Geist said. “It is too early to tell. This one wants to find out more about her.”

“Keep at it. If she is a traitor, I want to know.”

“This one doubts that she is a traitor.”

Parsef put down his cup and stared at Geist.

“What do you mean, ‘you doubt she is a traitor?’”

“That is this one’s initial readings,” she said.

“Then get better ones. Get cozy with her, find out what they’re up to.”

“You order, and this one obeys.”

Parsef gave Geist a hard look. As a member of the Death Korp, she never spoke back, or spoke up; saying that she doubted something was the closest she ever came to talking back.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“This one is fine.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. This one feels very good.”

Parsef missed the minute trembling of her legs.

“Very well,” he said. “Get back out there and see what you can find.”

“As you will.” Geist bowed, changed back into a Fenrisian kaerl, and left the room. Parsef went back to enjoying his tea. Hopefully the Fabricator-General would come down on the right side of the law, and if he didn’t, he was sure the Inquisition would be able to spin things to a favorable outcome.

 

* * *

 

Archmagos Slithin stood, waiting for the Fabricator-General’s holy writ. The bridge of _Allfather’s Honour_ was cramped with the Sons of Russ, Chapter Master Logan standing at their head. Off to the side was Inquisitor Parsef, with his assassin and Grey Knight retinue.

Logan’s eleven Captains stood behind him, with their retinues with them, and kaerl assistants waiting in the wings. Even Bjorn the Fell-Handed was there to witness their fate. But no one stood by Logan; neither his guard nor his advisors. The only one allowed near him was Brother Ironclaws, who stood like a man destined to die. He was grim, stone faced, and stood at rigid attention.

Slithin could not see why. Yes, he had perverted the Holy Omnissiah’s designs, but he re-created technology not seen in millennia; that warranted an exception, especially if the vaulted Grey Knights found no source of corruption.

Then why the grimness? Logan held his axe like an executioner. Slithin didn’t know the Chapter Master well enough to read his eyes, but he could read the state of his Terminator armor; the servos were growling, the machine-spirit begging to be used. Used on Brother Ironclaws.

“Sire.” An astropath and tech priest walked forward. “We have received word from the Fabricator-General, and have decoded his message.”

What else would an entire Space Marine Chapter be gathered for? But it was protocol, formality, and it had to be followed.

“Proceed,” Slithin said, nodding curtly.

The astropath handed a scroll to the tech priest, who unraveled it and began to read.

“’Archmagos Slithin,’” he read, “’your recommendation of Tech Marine Aevar Ironclaws, stationed with the Space Wolves Chapter, comes highly regarded. Inquisitor Parsef, your examination of Ironclaws is always welcome, and we are pleased to hear that a brother of ours has passed your rigorous tests.

“’We are most pleased with the re-creations that Brother Ironclaws has discovered. However, we find his methods highly disturbing, flying in the face of our most holy teachings. Therefore, as punishment for his tinkering with knowledge beyond his means of control, we hereby sentence Ironclaws to exile on the Cardinal World of Dimmamar, of the Segmentum Obscurus, for the rest of his natural life.

“There, he shall be kept under watch by the stationed Sisters of Battle, where he shall create a forge city and have unrestricted access to it, where he shall continue to manufacture relics to prove his worth and devotion, as well as educating chosen tech priests to further the creation and maintenance of these wonders.”

If Slithin had a mouth, he would frown. Not only had he given Ironclaws a glowing recommendation, he knew the Fabricator-General quite well; he was _certain_ that Ironclaws would be taken to Mars, where he could help re-define all their STCs. What would make the Fabricator-General order his exile, and exile him to a Cardinal World, of all places?

One of the floating servo-skulls caught Parsef moving. Linked to his neural-processor, Slithin saw through the servo-skull’s sensors; the Inquisitor was smiling.

It _had_ to be the Inquisition. They clearly resented the Space Wolves; could this be them exerting their influence on the Fabricator-General? No, the Priests of Mars were not to be tested. If tested, if pressed, the Fabricator-General could always pull his support; from the Inquisition, from the Navy, even from the Guard if he wanted to. If the Mechanicus felt slighted, the Imperium could see itself ground to a screeching halt.

But the Inquisition _had_ influenced the Fabricator-General; they were able to exile Brother Ironclaws. How could they have done that? Slithin’s message was encoded, and passed through trusted astropaths. Could the Inquisition have men and women inside the Astronomican to leak the transmission? How much power did the Inquisition have in order to pull something like that off?

Slithin was so carried away, he nearly missed the priest continue the ruling.

“’We request that Inquisitor Parsef maintains his vigil over Brother Ironclaws, to ensure that he does not fall prey to the Ruinous Powers. Under his watch, he shall have final command over Brother Ironclaw’s ultimate fate, up to and including an Order of Exterminatus, should the worst come to pass.

“’If an order to execute Ironclaws is passed, it shall be followed to the letter. However, should we find that the Inquisitor was over-zealous in his duty, we shall have words with the Inquisition. These are re-created relics from beyond the Heresy, and we cannot possibly put value to their worth.’”

Even with this strange…agreement? Threat? Whatever made the Fabricator-General rule in line with the wishes of the Inquisition, the Inquisition could not block the General from threatening them.

Maybe that was the agreement; the Inquisition would have unfettered access to Brother Ironclaws, and unfettered access to kill him, but Mars could pull their support. Whatever they were playing, it was a game where the stakes were too high. Then again, that seemed to be the standard operating procedure of the Inquisition as a whole.

As for Aevar himself, he seemed disappointed, but oddly at peace with the ruling. His grim face never changed, but his shoulders relaxed. Chapter Master Logan scowled, but only by the barest of millimeters. As for the rest of his Chapter, their reactions varied between disgust to disinterest.

“’To protect the means of recreating these relics, both from the Ruinous Powers and from the Inquisitor,’” the tech priest continued, “’we shall ask ten Chapter of Space Marines to provide to us a small tithe of soldiers, who shall be stationed on Dimmamar as guards to augment the current stationed of Sisters of Battle. They will be guards, and executioners, much as the same function of the Deathwatch. They shall share the duty, staying on rotation for a stretch of five years each. That is our holy writ.’”

The ruling was something that Slithin never would have expected from the Fabricator-General: politics. It was an agreement that came with many hooks and catches. It was a ramshackle, cobbled together agreement that favored some while leaving others in the wind, undoubtedly the creation of many long nights and twisted or broken promises. No wonder Parsef was pleased with it; the Inquisition thrived in political back dealing like this.

But if this was a political ruling, that must mean that the High Lords of Terra had weighed in on it. Maybe that’s what the Inquisition did: leak Slithin’s message to the High Lords at large, and have them drag the rulings of the Machine God into their realm. They couldn’t let the Mechanicus win, so the Inquisition turned the Fabricator-General’s unilateral decision into a multilateral choice, and Slithin knew all too well that ‘multilateral’ was a byword for ‘political.’

Yes, this _was_ a dangerous game the Inquisition was playing. If they placed so much as a toe over a line or misjudged anything by the slightest of margins, the entire Imperium could be ground to a halt with servitors sitting useless and tech priests idle at the order of a vengeful Fabricator-General. The Inquisition was so hell bent on ruining Ironclaws, they were risking the ire of the Omnissiah, and the support of the entire Mechanicus just to control him.

Hearing the final ruling, the Marines reacted yet again, this time with more disgust, or groaning.

“’A tithe of soldiers?’” The Stormwolf spat. “They want us to sit idle, out of war?”

“It’s the order of the Fabricator-General,” Logan said. Slithin knew Logan was not fond of the task placed before him, but he bore it with much more grace than his subordinate. “Stop barking and accept it.”

 **+This is good,+** the Fell-Handed rumbled. **+We can rebuild our past glory. The Imperium will be strengthened by this.+**

“You revered fallen is right,” Slithin said. “Lost technology is now freely available to us, relics not seen in millennia. You should be honored it is from a man of your Chapter.”

“Aye, I should be,” Logan said. Now what did he mean by that? “Inquisitor, you share in our fate as well.”

From off to the side, Inquisitor Parsef slid out of the ranks of the Grey Knights, abandoning his hiding place and walking into the light. Inquisitors and their love of the shadows…

“That it seems,” he grinned. Parsef did his part and tried to look surprised, but his grin betrayed him. “I look forward to the work that I will be doing with the Priests of Mars, and in preventing their newest treasure from falling prey to corruption.”

Slithin could see that Parsef truly would take pleasure from watching Aevar twist. The bad blood between the Inquisition and the Space Wolves never stopped surprising him.

 **+Thank you for your services,+** Bjorn said to Slithin. **+Ironclaws, you hold a great, terrible burden in your hands.+**

“Aye,” he said, “I’ll never go home again.”

 **+That is unfortunate,+** Bjorn agreed, **+but the work you are to do will benefit the Imperium. You’ll lead us to a new, golden age.+**

“No pressure, right?” Aevar said, barking out a single, rough peel of laughter. “Archmagos, will you be joining me in by exile?”

“As much as I want to witness you recreate relics and learn of their construction, sadly I must return to my forge world,” he said. “I have been gone too long, and need to return to my post.”

“We will be honored to carry you back to your home,” Logan said. “Let it never be said that the Wolves of Fenris were bad hosts.”

“Yet again, I give you my deepest gratitude,” Slithin said. “While Brother Ironclaws may be able to create holy relics for you at any time, please let me know how I may be of assistance to you; I wish to repay your kindness with equal gratitude.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Logan said, smiling. “Archmagos, before your departure, can we interest you in one last feast?”

“Ah, now there’s something I never thought I’d grow accustom to,” Slithin said. “Your feasts are truly a wonder.”

“Now that’s something we love hearing!” Logan gently slapped Slithin’s back as they walked away. “Come! All this business is giving me a thirst. Parsef, you’ll be getting very close to us in the coming years, might as well get used to our food and drink. Join us!”

“My thanks, but I must decline.”

“Bah, don’t worry, the ale won’t knock you on your ass _this_ time, I’m sure of it!”

 

* * *

 

“Fucking exile!”

Helfist watched as Bjorn threw a flagon across his chambers, winching as his Jarl’s massive voice echoed in the comparatively small space.

“They want us to be stuck, planet side, until the end times?” He roared. “Who the fuck do they think they are?!”

“The people who saved us from being branded traitors and having Fenris exterminated,” he replied.

Bjorn spun, staring death at Vermund.

“My station is to provide to you wise council,” he said, “I’m giving you just that.”

“You can give me more than that,” he hissed. “You can give me a way out of this shit duty! Exile!”

“I don’t like it either, but I like it a hell of a lot better than being called ‘traitor.’”

“So you think we have to take this shit assignment?”

“Well, old man Ironclaws has to.”

“And what about us?”

“You realize that he never said that _we_ have to be the ones living with Aevar, right?” Helfist said. “They said that Aevar has to spend the rest of his life on Dimmamar, not us. Aevar is the one being exiled.”

“And what am I supposed to do without my best Iron Priest?” Bjorn seethed.

“The same thing we would always do: move on. So you won’t have the best help; we’ll make due. We always have to.”

“And leave him there, at the utter mercy of the fucking Inquisition?”

“Maybe we can leave a few brothers with him,” Helfist suggested. “The Fabricator-General wants a rotation of Space Marines; I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if a few of us stay there permanently.”

“Great. Even more help leaving me.”

Vermund shrugged. “Better than leaving our brother in the hands of others. That is a fate no Son of Russ should handle alone.”

“You sound like you’re volunteering,” Bjorn said, accusation in his voice.

This got Vermund to pause.

“I guess I am.”

“And why should I give up a Rune Priest as well as an Iron Priest?” Bjorn pressed.

“Aevar’s been like a true brother to me. Shit, even a father,” he admitted. “Since I was pulled from the ice, he’s had a hand in knocking me into place. I owe him that much. If it wasn’t for him, I’m sure my thread would’ve been cut before I left the Blood Claws.”

Bjorn paced the room, nearly pulling his hair out.

“Aye, he’s been here before I was raised to Jarl,” he said. “Damn greybeard will outlive us all. Who else can say they fought in Armageddon, aside from Ulrich, the Fell-Handed, and the Old Wolf?”

“Damn few,” Helfist said. “And they’re all dead.”

“And now they’ll be one fewer.”

“Aye, that they will.”

Bjorn continued to pace, seething and muttering to himself. More than a few curses towards the Inquisition were spilled.

“Fine,” he said. “Go yourself. I’ll find some damn fool Blood Claws who need to be straightened out and send them as our own personal guard as part of this ‘Deathwatch’ tithe they want us to pay. And be quick about it; I’m sure the Mechanicus want us out there as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure of it,” Helfist said. “I’ll go find old man Ironclaws and tell him the news.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re crazy,” Aevar laughed.

“And the pot called the kettle black,” Helfist said.

“You really want to stay on the ass-end of the galaxy until the stars go out?” Ironclaws walked around his chambers, gathering up plans, parchment, tools and other odds and ends.

“I think I owe it to you for this,” Helfist said. “Who’s the one who knocked enough sense into my damn-fool head to stay alive this long?”

“Well, one thing’s for sure, you’re guaranteed to hit two centuries staying at this place,” Ironclaws said, laughing all the while.

“You think I’m in a contest to see how long we can live?” Helfist grinned. “Come on, we all know who’d win that one, _greybeard_.”

Aevar scratched at his beard as he continued packing. He was nearly done, having filled nearly an entire munitions crate, and was ahead of schedule to boot.

“Hope you get used to the Inquisitor,” he said. “He’ll be staying with us, too.”

“And the Grey Knights, wherever _they_ ran off to.”

“Always on a ‘secret mission’ this, and ‘daemon-hunting’ that. They’ll probably turn up a few times while we’re in transit.”

“And that assassin?”

“I’m working on that,” he grinned. “Well, not me, but someone close.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what that means,” Helfist shook his head.

“It’s nothing too serious. Only getting to know the prey. _Intimately_ knowing the prey.”

Vermund snorted.

“So, as long as you keep cranking out new relics, the Mechanicus will let you live, huh?”

“And teach a few fool priests. They might not say it, but they need me.”

“Damn priests with their tech boners,” Helfist snorted.

“Hey, those tech boners kept us from getting blasted all the way to the fucking warp,” Aevar laughed. “Damn scary shit. It’ll make a good story someday.”

“We like getting scared, but nearly being branded a renegade Chapter? That’s too much.”

“Says you. Give it a few decades, and Grey Hunters will be chilling Blood Claws with this story.”

Helfist shrugged. “Maybe. But not today, and certainly not tomorrow.”

“That much we can agree upon.” Aevar paused. “How’s Little Bjorn taking all this?”

“As well as you’d expect.”

“How many Claws has he knocked about in the training pits?”

“Last I checked, half a dozen. That fucking Wight nearly put him in his place, though. He really does have a mark for greatness about him.”

“I’ll bet. Good thing we’re not taking him, he shouldn’t share in this fate.”

“I’m sure he’ll be darkening our doorway. Blood Claws always get the shit assignments.”

“And nothing spells ‘shit assignments’ like guarding an exile,” Aevar roared.

“You’re taking this all awfully well.”

“I was waiting for us to be branded a traitor Legion, and for Logan to take my head on the spot,” he said. “This is the best case scenario I could think of.”

“This is what you _hoped_ for?”

“Well, not the exile, but my Chapter is still in good standings with the Imperium at large, and I get to keep my head. Tell me that doesn’t sound like a win.”

Helfist grumbled. Greybeard had a point.

“So it’s off to some far-flung, ass-end of the galaxy planet for us then, huh?” He said.

“Aye, that it is. I appreciate the company, but you really don’t have to do this.”

“You kept me alive when I was a blood-happy Claw. I’ll keep your grey-haired ass alive in return.”

“You know, I have to be honest,” Aevar said.

“ _This_ ought to be good.”

“When you were that damn fool Claw who’d just discovered his druid powers, I never thought you’d make a good friend. You remember how headstrong you were, don’t you?”

“I remember taking damn fool risks, just like every other Claw.”

“You were worse,” Aevar chuckled. “Ever since you found out that you could pull power from the heroes and give yourself a monstrous boost in strength, you always wanted to use it on things. Remember when you got that first layer of blood on your gauntlet?”

“Damn, how could I forget?” Helfist chuckled, looking at his gauntlet and the dried, miss-matched blood patterns that coated it. “We were hunting traitors. Some fucking berserker thought he could cut my thread. Took his whole fucking head off with that punch!”

“You know what you did for the next dozen-or-so hunts? You went looking for the biggest, baddest motherfucker you could find, and tried adding their blood to your collection. Nearly got your thread cut when you jumped at a Carnifex.”

“Ha! That was a good fight!”

“Says you. You weren’t the one who had to stitch you back up. But those knocks eventually paid off. Had to be getting just over a century when you started realizing that the best way to hunt wasn’t to run headlong at something, screaming at the top of your lungs.”

“I wouldn’t say the knocks did it for me, but they helped,” Helfist said.

“Oh? Than what did?”

“Well, I thought of dying. This had to be when that damn Carnifex fucked me up, left me right at Valhalla’s door. I could feel my thread fraying; it should’ve snapped back then. But it made me think of  my little ones I left back on the ice.”

“You had little ones?”

“Aye, two of ‘em,” Helfist said, smiling. “Their mother, my wife, died giving birth, but they came out just perfect. Frost’s balls, I miss ‘em terribly sometimes. Back out there, I knew I couldn’t take too many risks. They were already out a mom, couldn’t leave ‘em without a dad too. But that Trial of Morkai made me wild again. Made me want to make the galaxy shake just from hearing my name, you know how it goes.

“But, eventually I realized I wasn’t gonna live forever this way. And if I die, then who’ll protect my little ones? I don’t have any illusions; they’re mortal, long since dead. But if they were anything like their dad, they put down roots damn quick, have their own little ones. And those roots need to be protected from the shit out there, right?

“I know I’m gonna die; it’s in everyone’ wyrd. I know my fighting is keeping my little one’s safe; maybe my death can as well.” Helfist laughed. “Now I’m sensible. Logical!”

“Responsible,” Aevar chuckled.

“Practical and dependable!”

“Funny how time changes everything,” Ironclaws roared. “Everything we’ve gone through was to bring us to this point. To fucking exile.”

“Life is wyrd, and wyrd is weird.”

“Very.” Aevar paused in his packing. “Thank you for coming with me through all this.”

“Through your exile?”

“Through everything,” Ironclaws said. “For not shooting me in the fucking head when I build that damn set of armor. For standing behind my name when Logan was to put me on trial. And yes, for going into exile with me.”

“I owe you this much, old friend.”

Ironclaws smiled.

“Well, Little Bjorn wants another feast, so we better get our fill before we’re gone forever.”

Aevar closed the trunk, while Vermund looked around the room, then out the hallway.

“Damn, I’m gonna miss this place,” he said. “All the smells and pack gatherings.”

“Can’t forget the snow and the cold.”

“You mean it gets warm here?” Helfist laughed.

 

* * *

 

“To the Vlka Fenryka!” Kaerls yelled, raising their flagons towards the tables at the front of the feast hall. “To their endless devotion to the Allfather!”

“An’ ta th’ battles ta come,” Maeva added, holding her flagon high. Ale spilled as she smashed the large, wooden cup against several others.

Maeva drank like there was a drop at the bottom of the flagon. Around the table, other kaerls worked to drain their flagons first. She saw one man eyeing her progress. She tilted the flagon higher, forcing more of the ale down her throat.

She was about to take the last pull, when another woman slammed her empty flagon down on the table, belching loudly. The others cheered as she raised her arms in victory. She didn’t even finish second; a portly man beat her by a few seconds.

“Dammit,” she cursed. But at the same time, she couldn’t help but grin. This was her home, and she would be kicked out of it soon enough.

“I know you, don’t I?” a voice said next to her. Maeva looked over. A dark-haired woman sat down next to her.

She looked strong, like she lifted ammo crates for the Vlka all day long. Her hair was braided in an ornate tribal pattern, running down the left side of her head, while the right side of her head was a buzz-cut. Her nose was broken and hadn’t healed right, and she had a scar running down her neck.

“I _do_ know you,” the woman grinned, “you’re that kaerl who’s helping that Iron Priest, ain’t you?”

“Got tha’ right,” she smiled back.

“I heard of a crazy mortal whore who took to working with a Sky Warrior, but they never said anything about a metal arm.”

“Sounds like ya need ta know me better,” Maeva said. “I don’t mind ‘tha’ crazy mortal whore,’ but ya can call me Maeva.”

“Wait, you’re _that_ Maeva?” A man demanded.

“Ya know of any other?”

“I thought that Maeva was as ugly as a kraken’s ass, an’ had wooden teeth.”

“I heard she only had a stub for an arm.”

“I thought she was some she-bitch the Sky Warriors trained to walk upright.”

“Look at all ya, whisperin’ like yer a group a spinsters,” she laughed. “My name _is_ Maeva, I’d like to think I’m prettier ‘n a kraken’s ass, an’ I ain’t no she-bitch.”

“I can tell you, you’re _much_ prettier than a kraken’s ass,” the dark-haired woman smiled  sweetly. She ran a finger across her cybernetic arm. “What about the stub for an arm?”

“Oh, they got tha’ bit right,” she said. “Can’t do shit with one arm, so I made another.”

“All by yourself?”

“Aye, all by myself,” she boasted.

“Looks like a Sky Warrior helped you,” someone said.

“He did help put some  tools ‘n shit in,” she admitted. “’Side from tha’, it’s all me.”

“There a story with that?”

“’Course there is,” Maeva smiled. “Pull up a seat...”

“Hlif.”

“Pull up a seat, Hlif, an’ I’ll tell you all about it.”

Hearing a story coming, the kaerls gathered around, pushing to get a good seat. A server set down an entire tray of ale, which were quickly grabbed. Maeva was barely able to get one herself. Hlif had to grab one out of a smaller woman’s hand; the greedy bitch took two. Maeva couldn’t help herself; with Hlif bent over the table to grab the flagon, she roughly smacked her ass. Must’ve been the ale.

The men laughed and Hlif hit her back, but playful like; she was all smiles. Maeva just grinned and took another pull of ale. Hlif looked for her seat, but found it had been taken. So she sat on Maeva’s lap.

“So all ya should know that I’m th’crazy mortal whore runnin’ ‘round with a Sky Warrior,” she began. Like any daughter of Russ, she knew how to spin a tale. “Why, ya ask? Turns out he needed my helpin’ hands. I’m good at makin’ thin’s. An’ I’m not a fuckin’ servitor, those thin’s don’t have any soul. Gotta make a blade with real heart ‘n soul if ya want it ta do more ‘n snap in a fight. Tha’s me, puttin’ heart ‘n soul inta battles.

“We went out on a hunt. Orks were lookin’ ta burn a few big colonies. Hive cities, with more people ‘n ya ever seen ‘fore. More people ya’d ever meet ‘n yer life. Shoulda seen it, with buildin’s reachin’ to th’ sky, gold on everythin’ an’ what ain’t gold is marble.”

“Rich fuckers,” someone yelled. “Probably can’t do shit for dick.”

“Got tha’ right,” Maeva laughed, grabbing at Hlif’s thigh as they laughed. “They needed our help with tha’ little ork problem. So the Sky Warriors went there ta kick ‘em in whatever gonads they got. An’ kick ‘em they did!”

“That’s our Sky Warriors! The Allfather’s Chosen!”

More ale was spilled, and more ale was served. Now Maeva was feeling good and loose.

“So I was out there, with the Blasphemer Aever Ironclaws himself,” she continued, “fixin’ tanks an’ artillery. Th’ orks loved big guns, so we gave ‘em all the guns they could handle. When outta nowhere, a whole army a orks showed up, starin’ us down! An’ who else was leadin’ ‘em but the warboss hisself!”

“What did you do?” A man asked.

“Wha’ any other Fenrisian would,” she shot back. “I grabbed my axes, an’ I ran at th’ fucker!”

The kaerls roared and pounded the table.

“I must’a cut down five or so of th’ smaller bastards,” she bragged. It was her last night home; might as well ‘embellish’ a ‘few’ details. “Woulda been more, but orks are tougher ‘n they look. I lopped part of one ork’s head. It just made him madder’n all hell.”

“Part of his head?” Hlif gasped.

“Damn right. Could see all th’ grey matter ‘n all tha’ shit jigglin’ ‘bout. Just made him go cross-eyed mad. But Ironclaws there was somethin’ else. He was howlin’ and screamin’, beggin’ for a challenge, ‘cus the orks just weren’t anythin’ to him.”

“What about the warboss? Wasn’t he there?”

“Damn coward realized he bit off more ‘n he could chew. Sent his cronies after us.” The kaerls booed. Maeva took the time to grab another drink. She sent a mental command to warm up her cybernetic hand. “An’ say one thin’ ‘bout th’ orks, there are a fuck lotta them. He just called in wave after wave, more’n we could handle. When outta nowhere, came Bjorn the fuck-motherin’ Fell-Handed himself! It was like he was a ship crashin’ through the waves, with orks fallin’ left ‘n right.”

“The Fell-Handed himself?”

“Damned right,” she roared. “Ta even see him wake up was an honor. Ta fight with him? I can die happy with that!”

“So how did you get those scars?” Hlif asked, running her finger down Maeva’s scarred cheek.

“Well, about tha’ time, th’ warboss finally found where his dick went,” she said. “Got a few of his boys to arm up with bombs, and sent ‘em at us, suicide style. They jumped at the Fell-Handed, crackin’ his armor up good.”

The kaerls gasped, cursing the green skins.

“We couldn’t let ‘em hurt the Fell-Handed, so Ironclaws put himself in front of him ‘til he could get his wind back. An’ he pushed ‘em back! He pushed ‘em so hard, the warboss had ta get in on th’ fight. Tha’s where I jumped at him.”

“You jumped at the warboss?” Another kaerl gasped.

“What else was I supposed to do?” She said with a well-practiced shrug. Hlif placed her hand on top of hers; she seemed to like her now-warm fingers. “Took some swings at him, but he’s a big fucker, yea? Blocked ‘em all, an’ lopped off my arm.”

She raised her arm and drew a line across her bicep. Kaerls grimaced.

“What did you do?” Hlif asked.

“I tied a tourniquet on myself, an’ I got back in th’ fight, tha’s wha’,” she grinned. “Got a good hit in, too. Put the smile right in his ear. Tha’ got ‘em pissed. Tha’s where I got this thin’.”

She pointed to the side of her face, where her long, jagged scar ran from her temple to her jaw.

“Backhanded th’ shit outta me. Shattered my face, broke my jaw, popped my eye. I was a right proper mess. By tha’ time, we had help come in. We carved th’ orks up, tore ‘em a new one, an’ drove ‘em back. Ironclaws picked me up, an’ since I’m so good with my hands,” she squeezed Hlif’s thigh, “he patched me up. This face ya see here? Got an adamantium skull.”

She tapped her head with a fork. It rang like it kissed metal. Kaerls laughed.

“Same with th’ jaw. All metal, no wooden teeth. Think I got a pretty good one outta th’ deal, though.”

“Damn! That deserves a drink,” a man said. “Give her some ale! Come on, you bastard, don’t be stingy. Come, to the crazy mortal whore!”

“Crazy mortal whore!” Everyone cheered. Now she was getting good and drunk. She cheered and boasted as food and drink was pushed in front of her. She got warmer and warmer as the night went on. Or was that Hlif?

One thing was for certain, they were both getting feistier and feistier. Eventually Hlif went in for a kiss, next thing Maeva knew, everyone was banging away on the table as they attacked each other. She stuck her metal middle finger high in the air, and pulled Hlif towards a door, her flesh and blood hand glued to her ass.

She never saw a small, blonde hair kaerl glaring at her as she left. The blonde kaerl’s skin rippled for a brief second, revealing a black catsuit underneath. Then she regained her concentration, and the rippling stopped.

 

* * *

 

Maeva walked through the hallways of the Aett, trying to ignore the little hangover and sores she got from the previous night. Damn, she would miss home.

“Just had ta get hooked up with a damn Blasphemer,” she grumbled. “Fuckin’ exile.”

She rounded a corner and nearly ran into Parsef and Geist, who was actually out of disguise.

“Oh, hello, Parsef,” she said, trying to remember how High Gothic went. “Fancy meetin’ ya here.”

“All too fortuitous,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Are you here to spy on us as well?”

“Wha’? Yer shittin’ me, right? I look like th’ kinda girl who’d be good at spyin’?” She laughed. “Come on, I’m packin’ up ta head inta exile. Runnin’ errands an’ whatnot.”

“Of course you are.”

“Fine then, don’t believe me,” she shrugged. “Just let me get back ta work an’ ya can go sulk or whatever ya do.”

“Why don’t you take an extra hand? Geist, you can help her,” Parsef said. 

“This one has duties to attend to.”

“Remember your orders, _assassin,_ ” he said. What orders could those be? Was Geist supposed to spy on her, too?

“…You order, this one obeys.” She turned to Maeva. “Where do your duties take you?”

“Gotta pick some crates up. I’m turnin’ here,” she said, pointing towards a T-junction. She led the assassin down the hallway, past a few other kaerls and servitors.

“So, haven’t seem much of ya since th’ big proclamation a couple a days ago,” she said, smiling easy. “Tha’ Parsef got ya workin’ hard?”

“This one’s duties were not exceptionally hard. And she has taken a vow of secrecy to never speak of them,” Geist replied frostily.

“Jeez, I ain’t askin’ ya ta tell me everythin’ yer doin’, just makin’ small talk. Can’t I ask ta see how yer doin’?”

“This one has been fine.”

Maeva waited for Geist to continue, but the assassin didn’t.

“…Tha’ it?”

“That is it.”

“Man, if I wanted ta be alone, I’d ‘ve asked fer ya.”

“This one is aware that she does not talk much.”

“Can’t ya just say ‘I?’ You’re plenty pretty, sayin’ ‘I’ would really help ya out.”

“This one doubts you mean that.”

Maeva turned to Geist.

“What ya mean, ‘this one doubts I mean it?’”

“This one welcomes your attempts at flattery, but doubts that they are sincere.”

That got Maeva to stop.

“Wha’s gotten inta ya? Ya’ve been avoidin’ me, an’ now yer actin’ all strange an’ bitchy. What’s gotten into ya?”

“This one does not know what you mean. She has been fine.”

“Bullshit ya’ve been fine, yer getting’ all snippy with me. Thought we were better ‘n tha.’”

“What is it you mean, ‘we were better than that?’”

“We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well in th’ past month ‘r so, yea?” Maeva said. “Now yer actin’ all jealous-like.”

“This one is not jealous.”

“I think ya are. I can see it in yer eyes.”

“This one’s eyes are covered; how can you see into them?” Geist asked, snapping at her.

“Come on, I’ve gotten ta know those eyes. They’re real pretty eyes. Well, when they’re disguised, eh? Ya make real pretty eyes.”

“This one suspects that you tell that to every woman you meet.”

“Wha’ th’…? Th’ fuck ya say?”

“This one suspects that you tell that to every woman you’ve ever met,” Geist repeated. “Did you tell it to that woman you bedded at the feast last night?”

“Who…? Wha’ are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

Geist’s  catsuit rippled. Maeva bit her tongue, trying not to jump. Geist became a pretty, tough-faced Fenrisian woman. Her nose was broken and not set straight, with a scar on the left side of her face. Hair sprouted from her head, twisting and turning into a long braid; the right side of her head, however, was cut close.

“Wait, yea, Hlif, tha’s who ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

“That is correct. Did you tell that woman that _her_ eyes were pretty as well?” Geist demanded. Her skin rippled as her disguise melted away, returning to the black catsuit.

Maeva blinked.

“Yer jealous.”

“This one is jealous of what?”

“Yer fucking jealous, tha’s wha,’” Maeva said, more than a little stunned.

“This one is not jealous of anything. She does not know what you are talking about,” Geist said, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“Bullshit ya are! Holy shit, yer actually fuckin’ jealous a me.”

“What is this ‘jealousy’ you keep mentioning?” Geist demanded.

“We’ve been fuckin’ like rabbits fer the past great month ‘r so, an’ now yer jealous just ‘cus I went after ‘nother woman.”

“What is a ‘rabbit?’”

“Ya don’t know what rabbits are?”

“Krieg has no natural life left on the surface. They all died out millennia ago in the nuclear holocaust of the Purge.”

“Morkai’s balls, forget ‘bout th’ gorram rabbits,” Maeva gasped. “Yer jealous ‘cus I’ve been stickin’ my tongue in other women, tha’s wha’ it is.”

“This one does not know what you mean.”

“Fekke, yer thicker ‘n a Land Raider,” she said. “Ya wanted me ta yerself.”

“That would be impractical. How would you birth a child for conscription?”

“Wha’ th’…? Holy fuck, Geist, just say yer fuckin’ jealous.”

“This one is _not_ jealous,” Geist snapped. “She is sure that your acts of flattery were simply to get what you wanted: an intimate encounter.”

“Yea, _just_ several dozen ‘intimate encounters?’” Maeva demanded.

“It was not several dozen.”

“Tha’s a figue of gorram speech!”

“If you have actual work to do, this one will leave you to it,” Geist said, turning on her heel. “She has her own duties to attend to.”

“Fine, get ‘em done on yer own time,” Maeva said. She felt like pulling her hair out, but was too stunned to do anything.

 

* * *

 

Aevar flipped through a sheet of scrolls. The Mechanicus wanted new relics, lesson plans for more tech priests. He had to pull another miracle out of his ass; packing could wait, if only for a bit. The door opened, and in wafted the unmistakable scent of a mortal. Not that Aevar needed to guess who it was.

“That was quick,” he said. “You done packing?”

“Bumped inta Geist,” Maeva said. “I think she really likes me.”

“Sorry?”

“I think she really likes me,” Maeva repeated. She shook her head as she walked in.

“Alright, that’s news. What tipped you off?”

“She’s as jealous as fekke when I talked ta her. Actin’ all snippy, tossin’ out insults, an’ bein’ petty.”

“I didn’t know Death Korp members knew how to insult people.”

“Well, this one does, yea? She said I called her pretty just ta ‘have an intimate encounter’ with her,” Maeva said, making finger quotes in the air. 

“That’s strange. How did all this start?”

“She must’a seen me take Hlif ta bed,” Maeva mumbled. “She’s a kaerl I met in th’ feast hall.”

“Was she a looker at least?”

“Oh, yea, a real tough bitch. Just my kind. Thin’ is, now Geist seems ta hate me.”

“Seems like she has a pretty good reason for it.”

“We never talked ‘bout keepin’ ta each other!”

“Maybe you should.”

“What…?  Ya turnin’ inta my ma?” Maeva demanded. “Tellin’ me ta take thin’s slow, find a nice girl ta get hitched ta?”

“I need you focused on this shit,” Aevar said, pointing to the schematic scrolls he had laid out. “On _this,_ not on Geist, ‘cus you’re making one Hel of a fuss over her. Has this happened to you at least once before?”

“Yea, had a few ladies who just didn’t get th’ hint tha’ I wasn’t inta anythin’ passed th’ winter. Maybe th’ spring, too, if I was feelin’ lonely.”

“Good. Then you know how to handle this without getting upset.”

“Upset? Damn right I’m upset!”

“Why? Geist is just another pelt on your wall.”

Maeva started, then stopped, stammering for a split second.

“Yea, she is,” she finally muttered.

“Then let it go. If she isn’t just something to warm your bed with, then maybe you should talk to her about it.”

“Never thought one of th’ Allfather’s Chosen would be my fekkin’ spinster’s circle,” she grumbled.

“What I need is for you to quit your bitching and work with me,” Aevar snapped. “We’re rediscovering lost technology; I can’t have your mind stuck on your last conquest. So think on it, do something about it, then shut your damn mouth, get focused, and get to work.

“The Mechanicus is the only reason we’re still sucking air; we piss them off, lose their blessing or bust their deal, we’re as good as dead. Now sit down, I want to give this plasma accelerator a go before we get kicked out of Fenris.”


	17. Exile

Maeva peeked around Helfist. Aevar stood at the head of the main feast hall. The Old Wolf stood in front of him, with Little Bjorn behind him. Parsef stood off to the side, without Geist. Dammit, where did she go? There were a handful of kaerls there; Geist had to be one of them.

“Not too sure how to officially do this,” Grimnar said. “Never had to exile one of our own before.”

“It’s a strange honor,” Aevar laughed.

“Aye, damn strange.” Grimnar sighed. “Well, you had to go looking for answers, and you got burned for it. So, as decreed by the Fabricator-General himself, you’re kicked off Fenris. You’ll never know the winter, the cold, or her embrace again, for as long as you live.”

The hall was quiet as the Old Wolf glared at him. Maeva peeked around some more, trying to find the woman who wouldn’t meet her eyes, or who glared death at her.

“Right, think that’s good enough,” Grimnar said, turning on his heel. “Ready the ship. Our dear Blasphemer needs to get off this rock and to the _Elusive Truth_. The Inquisition wants to jump to this ‘Dimmimar’ planet within the hour.”

The ground shook as armored Sky Warriors left. The kaerls were just behind them. Many mortals left in pairs, but more than a few left alone. Tapping her foot impatiently, Maeva didn’t know which woman to go for. Then she saw a woman glare at her for the briefest of seconds.

“There she is,” she hissed, running up to a woman. “Geist. Geist!”

“Hmm?” The woman hesitantly turned. “Are you…?”

“Geist, come on, don’t do this.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman said. “Maybe you’ve confused me.”

“Dammit, Geist, I’m sure tha’s you in there,” Maeva groaned.

The woman’s eyes went flat, and her voice broke.

“This one is very agitated that you can spot her,” the assassin said from her assumed form.

“I know wha’ a jilted lover looks like, yea?” Maeva said. “All th’ glarin’ an’ wha’ not. If it makes ya feel better, I nearly bought it.”

“…This one understands, and will guard her reactions better.”

“Listen, can’t ya just say ‘feelings?’ An’ can we talk?”

“We _are_ talking,” the assassin frostily replied.

“Fekke,” Maeva groaned, pulling at her hair. “Right, here goes: I ain’t good with this whole ‘stickin’ together’ thin’. No one really is, not on Fenris.”

“What is it that you mean, ‘sticking together?’”

“Stayin’ with someone. We live on a death world, yea? Ya might fancy some chick, an’ she goes huntin’ an’ gets eaten by a thunderwolf. Shit happens out there on th’ ice, yea? Ya can’t let it get ya down, so ya move on. An’ th’ next girl gets caught in a storm an’ freezes ta death, so ya find ‘nother.

“Yer dad gets his threat cut makin’ red snow with ‘nother tribe. Yer mom ain’t gonna mourn all year long; she finds someone else, an’ ‘fore ya know it, ya got a whole litter of half-brothers ‘n sisters runnin’ ‘round. Ya get wha’ I’m sayin’?”

“Due to the harsh conditions of the planet and the short life-expectancy, you don’t expect long-term partners.”

“Yea, tha’s it. We just don’t get tied down, yea? It don’t mean nothin’, just tha’ we’re lookin’ around.”

“You mean to imply that you sleeping with That Other Woman meant nothing to you.”

“Fekke, ya said tha’ with capital letters ‘n shit,” Maeva said. “Yea, no, well…damn, I mean, Hlif is a hot number, but I ain’t lookin’ ta make anythin’ long outta it. Not unless she is, but, but, damn, where am I goin’ with this?”

“If you favor women over men, how would you do your duty to your planet and bear children?” Geist asked. “Surely you’re meant to have children; this one is aware that only Krieg has access to the Vitae Womb cloning technology. Therefore, you must have birthing responsibilities.”

“’Vi-ta Womb?’”

“It is the means of reproduction on Krieg,” Geist said. “It essentially clones a user to create a soldier.”

“Ya mean there’s dozens a other women who look just like ya, runnin’ ‘round over there?”

“Assuming they are still alive and in service, then yes, that is correct.”

“Be still, my legs…An’ each of ‘em is an assassin?”

“For reasons that were not explained to her, she believes she was the only one selected to be an assassin. It is possible there was a glitch in the cloning process which made her an ideal candidate. But this one digresses; how would you create children if you do not prefer the company of men?”

“Oh, kids. Yea, I know a guy, Sven. He don’t like the idea of gettin’ with a woman like I don’t like gettin’ with a man. We got an agreement: we both live long enough tha’ people start wonderin’ wha’ we’re doin’ ‘bout kids, he’ll do his thin’ into a cup, an’ I’ll play with a baster.”

“A very efficient agreement.”

“Yea, we might not like it, but it’s better ‘n th’ other thin’. Ya know, actually gettin’ with a man ‘r woman? But ya get where I’m comin’ from?”

“You seducing That Woman meant nothing to you.”

“Just a good lay; have ta scratch an itch, yea? But she left in th’ mornin’, an’ I ain’t seen her since. Th’ Aett is a big place, ya know?”

“This one believes she understands.”

Maeva awkwardly shifted from foot to foot. The assassin watched her, silently.

“Ya got somethin’ ta say?” She asked. “I think I put my bit out there. At least, th’ best I knew how. I ain’t good at any of this.”

“You do lack a certain grace, but this one suspects that it is because of your death world heritage, not because of any ill-intent,” Geist said. “But she is confused; what is it you are saying?”

“I really like tumblin’ with ya,” Maeva said, blushing. “We’ve had fun scratchin’ tha’ itch, yea? An’ all yer talkin’ is kinda annoyin’, with all ‘this one’ this, an’ ‘this one’ that, but it’s kinda cute. It’s growin’ on me. I’d like ta get ta know you better; it’ll be nice to keep this goin’, yea?”

“This one agrees. While she has not ‘scratched the itch’ before, the time she spent ‘scratching’ it with you has been…enjoyable.”

“So can we give this ‘nother go?”

“This one would greatly like that.”

“Good,” Maeva smiled.

“But this one would appreciate it if you would refrain from seeking other women to ‘tumble’ with.”

“Wha’?”

“This one is not dead yet; she would prefer it if you didn’t ‘move on’ from her until such a time. It is similar to weapon maintenance; maintain the use of your weapon until it needs to be replaced. Only then would you find a new one.”

“Shit. Tha’ll take a little gettin’ used ta. Habits an’ all tha’, yea?”

“Will you, or will you not?”

“Morkai’s balls, Geist, I said it’ll take getting’ used ta, not tha’ I can’t do it, gorram,” Maeva said. “I’ll do my best ta get used ta this whole ‘one person’ thin’.”

“This one…thank you.” Geist actually smiled. It was a slight tug at the corner of her assumed lips, but it was a smile none the less, and it was genuine.

“Yea, feels nice, eh?”

“It does. Sadly, this one has duties to attend to. May she talk later?”

“I’d be insulted if ya didn’t talk ta me,” Maeva smiled.

“Then we will talk later.” Geist started walking away, but Maeva pulled her in for a quick kiss. Then she let the assassin go.

It felt like a weight was lifted from her shoulders. She felt like she could take on a Sky Warrior, stripped naked to boot. Maeva nearly skipped down the hallways, running to the lower levels to gather her things. She opened the doors to Aevar’s chambers, where he was gathering up his remaining things.

“You find that assassin of yours?”

“Yea, I did,” she nearly sang. “She’s up fer givin’ it another go. Only this time, no more side action.”

“Good,” Aevar nodded his approval. “That means we can still spy on her to keep an eye on Parsef.”

Maeva blinked, then remembered that she was supposed to spy on the assassin.

“Yea,” she said, “yea, we can.”

“Even better.” Aevar didn’t seem to notice the drop in her voice. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Maybe we can get an early warning for when he’s about to exterminatus us. Come on, let’s get to the hanger.”

 

* * *

 

There was a knock at Parsef’s door. He opened it, meeting a demure kaerl.

“Tea, milord?”

The smell wafted through the air. Ginger tea, just the way he liked it.

“Please.”

He opened the door, and the kaerl walked in. As soon as the door was closed, her skin rippled, changing from the polymorph drug, until she became Geist once more.

“Report,” he said, taking the tea from her grasp.

“This one has found nothing of note,” Geist said. “She is continuing her investigation.”

“Good. The wolves must surely have something to hide,” he said. “How deep do you think you can go?”

“This one has had time to hone her disguises; she believes she can infiltrate the upper levels of the kaerl hierarchy.”

“Excellent.” He took a sip of his tea. It was perfect, with just the right amount of honey. Parsef took a seat to enjoy the tea more. “What about that kaerl? Maeva?”

“This one begs for your pardon. What do you mean about her?”

“You’ve been getting pretty chummy with her, haven’t you?” Parsef said, sipping his tea. “We need to leverage that. Use her to get into the inner ranks of the kaerls, even the Space Wolves if you can.”

Parsef was relaxing with his tea; he didn’t hear Geist pause for nearly a full second.

“The Fenrisians are fiercely independent,” she finally said. “They might not be welcoming of outsiders. They have spotted this one’s disguises in the past.”

“Then make better ones. I need to know what those fucking dogs are up to. We’ll probably have better luck getting close to them at Dimmimar.”

“You…order, and this one obeys,” Geist said, bowing after nearly two seconds of hesitation. Sitting in his plush chair, enjoying his tea, Parsef once again missed the hesitation.

Geist’s skin rippled, changing back into the kaerl disguise, and she left the room.

 

* * *

 

Maeva huffed as she carried three very large bags towards the Stormwolf assault ship. The bags rattled despite her work at wrapping all her blacksmithing tools with her clothes. Each step caused the tools to tinker. She felt like a damn sleigh bell.

Despite the chilly air of the Aett, she was sweating heavily. Even with her new cybernetic strength, her tools weighted a damn lot.

“Need a hand with that?” Someone said. Maeva looked up, and was surprised to see Hlif walking over.

“Well, well, look who it is,” she grinned. “Thought ya give me th’ old fuck ‘n run, yea?”

“Na, just a damn big mountain we work in,” Hlif said, taking the strap of one bag.

“Careful, it’s heavy.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Suit yourself.”

Maeva let go of the bag, and Hlif was nearly pulled to the ground.

“The fuck you got in this thing?” She groaned.

“Smithin’ tools,” Maeva grinned. “Got my ass exiled, I gotta take everythin’ I got.”

“Shit. Think you could have pared down a bit?”

“I did. You shoulda seen how many bags I had ‘fore.”

Hlif nearly had to waddle to keep walking with the bag.

“Don’t even get a right proper send off, do ya?” She said. “Would’ve thought they’re be a few more people here to wish you away.”

“Fer th’ Blasphemer an’ his crazy mortal whore? Come on, be real,” Maeva laughed. “Thanks fer th’ hand.”

“Glad I can help,” Hlif said with a smile. “Damn shame about the exile. We had a good romp, didn’t we?”

“I don’t know; ya talkin’ ‘bout me, or my fingers?” Maeva grinned.

“Why not both?”

If she was getting exiled until the stars went out, Maeva wanted one last taste of home before she left. She opened her mouth, and just when she was about to say something really smooth, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. It was another kaerl, but she was looking at her.

“Yes?” Hlif said slyly.

No, that kaerl couldn’t have been looking at her; she was going a visual inspection of the Stormwolf. But that got her thinking; could it be Geist? She was an assassin, she could be anyone.

“Er, yea,” Maeva stammered, “I’d like ta, really, but…th’ Sky Warriors got me workin’ hard.”

“You don’t seem worked _that_ hard.”

“Yea, but movin’ shit an’ stuff, they got some more shit hidden away,” she mumbled. “I ain’t got any free time fer a quick romp.”

“Damn. And I wanted to get a fix of those fingers ‘fore you left forever,” Hlif said, obviously disappointed.

“An’ I really wanted to use ‘em, too,” Maeva laughed. “But, ya can’t keep th’ Warriors waitin’, can we?”

“Damn duty,” Hlif said. “Hope there’s some nice eye candy wherever the Hel you’re goin’.”

“Yea, me too,” Maeva laughed. She watched as Hilf went back to the Aett’s doors, hips swaying hypnotically.

“Fekke, Geist,” she muttered. “Better give me a real good time fer turnin’ _tha’_ down.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar stood on the bridge as the ship gave way to real space. It shuddered, and the blast shields lowered, revealing the Cardinal World he would spend the rest of his life on. The short four day warp trip did little to ease his mood, no matter how much of a ‘miracle’ the Navigators were making of their speedy arrival. He idly wondered just how the fuck the Inquisition managed to get him exiled to a Cardinal World of all places.

He felt cramped just watching the planet. Even though it was the planet’s night cycle, it was illuminated with countless points of light. There had to be hundreds of millions, if not billions, of humans on the planet; and they were all fervently loyal to the Emperor.

“If there’s one thing that I won’t miss, it’s the damn warp travel,” Aevar said.

“Preaching to the choir,” Helfist mumbled. “Look at that world. Fucking Inquisition has probably been putting spies on this planet since the Fabricator-General gave his decree.”

“Probably before then,” Aevar shrugged. “Our dear Inquisitor probably demanded that my name be stricken from any piece of paper or logic-computer that held it.”

“Would he have?”

“Please. The Mechanicus does not delete data; they only amend it.”

“So they stick us in the ass-end of nowhere, on the middle of an Ecclesiarchy-held world, surrounded by Inquisitors, Grey Knights, and an assassin—“

“Don’t forget the Sisters of Battle,” Aevar added. “Cardinal Worlds mean Sisters.”

“Right, _and_ Sisters of Battle. My point is they’d all love to see us offer up blood sacrifices so they can frag our asses. What the fuck kind of exile is this?”

“The kind where they want to frag our asses at any second. The Inquisition hates us because we’re Vlka Fenryka and don’t give a flying fuck about them. Apparently Grey Knights aren’t overkill enough, so they tell the Ecclesiarchy that I’m the Blasphemer, so now they got Sisters of Battle ready to do us in.”

“The Inquisition really does play hardball, don’t they?” Helfist chuckled darkly.

“Too right.”

“And the only thing keeping us sucking air is the Mechanicus’ mighty, raging tech boner. That’s just great. Can you do me a favor, brother?”

“What’s that?”

“If you ever run out of ideas to give to the tech priests, tell me first,” he said. “I want a running start before all the shooting starts.”

“Not sure what good it’ll do, but if it helps you sleep at night.”

“The sad thing is, it just might help.”

“Excuse me, milord?” A kaerl said, walking up to Aevar. “Got a message from th’ planet. Got a shuttle coming up to take you planet side.”

“Well, here goes nothing,” Aevar said. “Is my assistant in the shuttle bay?”

“She is, milord. Said she was getting antsy, sitting around.”

“Sounds like her.” He turned to Helfist. “Last chance to get out of this.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Helfist said, walking with him to the elevator. It hummed as it dove through the guts of the ship, taking them closer and closer to the shuttle bay.

“Damn,” Aevar said. “Exile. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“It might be exile, bet they’re not throwing us into the warp,” Helfist said. “Now _that’s_ the day.”

“Truly, this is a dark millennium we live in,” Aevar laughed.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The bay was in a flurry of activity, but one mortal sat still. Maeva was sitting on the munitions crate that Aevar packed full, idly whittling a stick.

“You ready to meet your new home?”

“Fuck th’ Hel no,” she snapped. “This place get any snow, at least?”

“Not too sure.”

“Fuckin’ better,” she grumbled.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Aevar asked.

“Turned down a tumble with Hlif ‘fore we left.”

“You? Turn down a tumble?” He laughed. “Careful, Vermund, the warp is suddenly calm!”

“Ha, ha, real funny, yea?” She grumbled.

“So why’d you turn her down?”

“Just…none of yer business, okay? Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.”

“Not every day a mortal turns us down,” Vermund said.

“Kinda like it. Keeps us humble, right?” Aevar slapped Helfist on the shoulder. “Come on, the shuttle should be coming here soon. Let’s get ready.”

Lights flashed and an alarm blared as a bay door opened. The blue-tinted void shield kept the empty vacuum at bay, and a Thunderhawk gunship floated through. It hovered, landing as gently as a multi-ton ship could.

 

* * *

 

The front door slowly opened, and a green-clad giant walked out. His skin was so black, it almost appeared to swallow the very light itself. A massive broadsword hung across his back, between his servo-arms.

 _“What the fuck?”_ Aevar said, staring. He had to focus to switch to High Gothic. “Is that Croan fucking Dragonsword?”

“Aevar,” the massive Tech Marine smiled. “It has been too long.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, ya bastard?” Aevar roared. The Salamander offered a hand, but Aevar wrapped him in a tight embrace. “Who the shit let you leave Terra?”

“It is a tale, one you might like,” he said, slapping Aevar’s back. “Good to see you are still alive.”

“Very good, indeed,” a mousey tech priest said, walking out from behind Croan.

“You brought Legato with you?” He roared. “Who’d you have to suck off to get this shit to fly?”

Aevar lowered himself to the mortal’s height, and gave him a cautious, one-armed hug. Unsure of what to do, the mortal hesitantly patted his back with his four thin servo-arms.

“Damn, it’s like the gang’s all back together,” Aevar laughed.

“And I see you brought a few of yours here, too,” Croan said, nodding towards Helfist and Maeva.

“Well, one’s my best help, the other’s too dumb to say ‘no’ to exile,” he laughed. “Croan Dragonsword, Legato, this is Vermund Helfist, Rune Priest. Sitting on my stuff over there is Maeva, my assistant. Helfist, Maeva, this is Croan Dragonsword and Legato, tech priest of Mars.”

“So how did you meet these two?” Helfist asked, walking over to shake Croan’s hand.

“Back when I was stationed on Holy Terra, doing work for the Mechanicus. These two were the only ones there worth talking to. They knew how to do their job, and not be a fucking stick in the mud about it.”

“Sounds like Ultramarines were there.”

“And a few Blood Ravens,” Croan said.

“Ugh! And I thought Ultramarines were bad!”

“And they let you off Terra to do what? Welcome me to exile?” Aevar asked.

“No; to join you,” Croan said.

“Okay, _now_ you’re shitting me.”

“Hardly,” Legato said. “Word of your…err, unique findings—“

“Dammit, call it what it is. I blasphemed.”

“Uh, right, when word of your blasphemies reached us, Croan and I were the only ones to speak in your defense. Then the Mechanicus revealed that you found a way to re-make relics. Is it true you made Paragon blades?”

“That and one other thing,” he smiled.

“That’s…wow. Incredible! Um, well, when we heard about that, Croan immediately knew that that’s what you found in the Emperor’s Library. We had to go out and help you.”

“You’re just trying to make up for almost killing me, aren’t you?” Aevar grinned at Croan.

“It is partially out of my own shortcomings,” he admitted, “but there are a few more reasons. First, it is mostly a selfish demand. Work on the ‘project’ is moving like a tank without its treads, being sucked into a pit of mud. We were to be of better use working on _anything_ else, including your ‘blasphemies.’ Second, we come bearing news from the Mechanicus, or rather, a warning.”

“Don’t tell me the Mechanicus is changing the deal,” Aevar groaned.

“Hardly. They simply want us to share with you how…tumultuous this agreement is,” Croan said. “As you know the Mechanicus are the only ones keeping you and your Chapter from being declared a Traitor Legion. But, to keep you and your Chapter in good standing, they had to come to many agreements with the High Lords and the Inquisition.”

“Ah, they want you to tell me about the sword hanging over my head.”

“Exactly. This ‘miracle’ the Mechanicus gave you is not to be tested. The Mechanicus wants relics, as well as more tech priests to be able to recreate your work. To them, you are a black box: you do something, and relics come out. They want you to teach other priests so everyone would know how to create those relics.”

“And prove to the Inquisition that you’re not somehow summoning daemons,” Legato added.

“Can’t forget about that, can we?” Aevar laughed. “So, let me guess: I have to follow _every_ order to the punctuation mark, right?”

“That is exactly right,” Croan said. “Breaking the order, even in spirit if not in letter, will cause the Inquisition to pass judgement on us, as well as your Chapter.”

“You mean kill us and label the Vlka a Traitor Legion,” Helfist said.

“That is right.”

“Damn. How far did the Mechanicus stretch their necks out on this?”

“We were not told specifics,” Croan said, “but the Fabricator-General himself told me that he had to call in dozens of favors owed to him, as well as promise many favors in return.”

“So the Mechanicus had to risk their good name to get this to fly, and to same my Chapter, I gotta pull another miracle out of my ass,” Aevar said. “Shit.”

“You now see where your hunt for the answers had brought you, brother?”

“Yea, yea, you gonna rub it in about how I got burned and all that?”

“Something along those lines.”

“Well, message received, brother,” Aevar groaned. “Anything else to tell me?”

“Just that we’re the first team of tech priests you need to train,” Legato said. “So don’t hold out on us.”

Aevar barely hid his groan. He was barely teaching Maeva anything. He barely knew what he himself was doing. The ‘black box’ the Mechanicus had begged, borrowed and pleaded for didn’t have any idea what he was doing.

He had to try harder, learn more. It wasn’t just his life on the line anymore, but his friends and even his Chapter.

“So you decide to risk your lives to come here and be taught by me. Is that more of that selfish demand of yours?” He asked instead.

“That, and the Ultramarine became unbearable,” Legato sighed.

“Wait…Ultramarines were bearable to begin with?” Helfist asked, stunned.

That got a laugh out of Croan. Maeva stared at his white teeth. The contrast between his skin and teeth was something new to her.

“Too right!” the Salamander roared.

“Speaking of the ‘project,’ was there anything that I missed?” Aevar asked. He hid his emotions well, but there was still much hope that leaked out into his voice.

“Everything and nothing,” Legato sighed. “We work, we toil, sweat and bleed, and get nowhere for our troubles.”

“So it’s a Monday.”

“Every day is a Monday,” Croan said. “That is why I say that this is a selfish demand. The Mechanicus needed a few tech priests to be taught by you, and we volunteered.”

“In that case, welcome to exile!” Aevar stretched his hands wide. “We’re being watched by the Inquisition, an assassin, Grey Knights, the Ecclesiarchy, Sisters of Battle, and eventually a kill team of Marines. If we so much as twitch, they’ll lop our heads off.”

“An assassin? Y-you can’t be serious,” Legato stammered.

“Did I stuttered?” Aevar smiled.

“Sadly, this is an improvement over the ‘project,’” Croan sighed.

“That’s the spirit! Come, this’ll be fun, once you get used to breaking every single rule you’ve ever held dear.”

 

* * *

 

The Thunderhawk flew down, landing in front of a massive monastery-fortress. It was built into a mountain, clearly the crowning jewel of the capitol hive city. It was almost like the Aett, but it was just so small. Clouds flew higher than the mountain, making it a pale imitation of the Vlka’s hold.

The landing pad was the largest piece of open land in what seemed to be this side of the mountain. Everywhere else, there were buildings. They were either homes, chapels or industrial buildings, but to an offworlder like Aevar, it was unsettling. He growled his displeasure at the lack of wild. The entire place smelt of incense, even from the ship.

“Fucking Cardinal world,” he muttered as the door to the ship dropped open. He led his motley crew out onto the planet where they would be living forever. “Fucking Inquisition. Who the hell did they have to suck off to get this shit to fly?”

“Remember, brother,” Croan said, “it was the Mechanicus that had to bend over backwards to save your Chapter.”

Waiting for them was Inquisitor Parsef, a team of Grey Knights, and an ancient-looking Sister of Battle wearing exquisite armor. Three long scars stretched from one corner of her lips towards the back of her head, tearing up her ear. It looked like some xenos nearly lopped off one side of her head in some long-ago battle.

“Greetings, Blasphemer,” the woman said. Like all Sisters, she wore her hair short. But hers was unfashionable, like she hacked it to length herself. Despite her age, her hair was still a light brown, with only a few wisps of gray. “I am Canoness-Preceptor Lynia, head of this Convent of the Order of the Valorous Heart, keeper of the faith on this planet.”

“And one of the many executioners waiting to cut our heads off,” Aevar said.

“We are not executioners,” Lynia said, eyes narrowing.

“No, you’re not, but you’ll do what the Ecclesiarchy tells you to do, and they’ll do what Parsef over there will tell them to do,” he said, nodding towards the Inquisitor. “They tell you to cut our threads, you’ll ask how. That sounds like executioner work to me.”

“I’m glad to see that you’re very perceptive.”

“Please, a blind man could see what this is.”

“Very true,” Lynia said. Her scars twisted as she smiled. “Then shall we dispense of the pleasantries, and call things by what they really are?”

“It’ll save me a headache trying to sort out all the double-talk.”

“Then welcome to your gilded cage.”

“Canoness, is that really necessary?” Parsef asked.

“If we wish to talk frank, then we’ll talk frank,” Lynia said. “It is what our ‘brother’ would want.”

“Come on, Parsef, I think we know each other better than to piss on each other and say it’s raining,” Aevar said.

Parsef snorted.

“And who is this merry band of souls?” Lynia asked. “Are they willingly following you down the path of damnation?”

“Ha! ‘Merry band!’” Aevar laughed. “They’re just my entourage. Canoness Lynia, may I introduce to you Vermund Helfist, my brother and Rune Priest, and my assistant, Maeva. The man over there is Croan Dragonsword of the Salamanders. You’ll like him; he loves fire just as much as you do. The tiny man behind him is Legato, a priest of Mars.”

“Canoness,” Helfist said, nodding curtly.

“Do you follow this man?”

“To this planet? Yes. To damnation? That remains to be seen,” Helfist smiled.

“Quite the lot you have,” Lynia said. “You are all welcome to Dimmamar, so long as you keep holy the Emperor and His teachings.”

“Right.” That got Aevar to shift uncomfortably. “Come on, let’s see where you’ll be stashing us.”

 

* * *

 

The meal hall was massive. Table after table was filled with Sisters. Each sported the same clothing; black with red sashes, although some ate with their armor. Nearly every Sister had the same hairstyle, although the colors ranged from red to grey; only a few Sisters seemed to rebel from the pattern. Every Sister sat with rapt attention, with perfect posture, hands clasped in front of them, each deep in prayer. The hall was so quiet, Helfist could hear a pin drop.

Aevar sat to Canoness Lynia’s left, with him, Croan and Legato to his left. Only Inquisitor Parsef sat to the right of her massive chair.

Helfist leaned over to Aevar. His wooden chair creaked and groaned. The sound echoed through the massive hall, making him grimace. Not a single Sister stirred.

“This is a bit of a change,” he muttered.

“’A bit?’”

“Fine, a big fucking change.”

Even though he whispered, he could hear his voice echo.

“The Sisters are wholly devoted to the Emperor,” Croan whispered. His voice carried as well. “This is what they do naturally.”

“Buncha sticks in th’ mud,” Maeav grumbled.

“It’s not that bad,” Legato said, adjusting his chair. The wooden legs scraped at the floor. He grimaced, and took more care in moving his chair. “This is actually quite peaceful.”

“Tha’s th’ problem; it’s too damn peaceful.”

From the massive chair that sat over the entire meal hall, Canoness Lynia finished her silent prayers. She spread her hands wide, offering her devotion to her sisters.

“Ave Imperator.”

“Ave Imperator,” the Sisters replied in perfect unison. As one, they calmly began serving each other, passing plates of food to each other and filling each other’s goblets. From the wing tables, a select number of sisters stood and carried food to the tables.

“Sister, what do you have to drink?” Helfist asked the serving sister.

“We have water, milord.”

“And…?”

“And water. I can fetch ice cubes, if you wish.”

“No ale?”

“None, milord. Temperance is a virtue.”

“What about mead?”

“Temperance, milord, is a virtue.”

“Mead is practically water!”

“With respect, milord, it is not.”

“Fine, how about wine?”

“Sacramental wine is not meant for recreational consumption,” the Sister gasped. “To…to even suggest it…”

“That’s it. I’m in Hel,” Helfist said. He let the flustered Sister walk away.

“Try going dry on Holy Terra,” Aevar said.

“Least th’ foods alright,” Maeva said, tucking into a pork chop.

“At least there is that,” Croan agreed. He turned to Aevar. “What are we to do?”

“We work,” he said.

“And what, pray tell, would you have us make first?”

“Well, first I gotta see how good you are when I make you forget everything the Mechanicus taught you,” Aevar said, cutting into his dinner. “Then we’ll see what we can make.”

 _And I’ll figure out how to make more shit up,_ he thought.

“Never thought I would be going back to the basics,” Croan chuckled.

“Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who had to start over. Only person who didn’t have to start from scratch was Maeva.”

“Imma born natural, yea?” She said, puffing her chest out.

“No, you just didn’t know anything. Easier to fill and empty jug than a full one.”

Maeva glared death at Aevar.

“It’s why I let you be my assistant,” he sighed. “I didn’t want anyone getting in my way when it came to the teachings of the Mechanicus. Since then, your head’s been filling up nicely. When you aren’t trying to lose it.”

“You were injured in battle?” Croan asked.

“Yup,” Maeva smiled. “Almost took out an Ork Warboss.”

“She got in a slap fight with a nob and almost lost her head,” Aevar said, correcting her. Maeva glared at him again.

“And you saved her?”

“I like my assistant. She’s good help,” he shrugged. “I’m glad that nob didn’t cut her thread.”

“I’m glad, too, yea?” Maeva eyed a passing-by Sister. Then shook her head, as if she was trying to get an idea out of her head.

“If she has your praise, I look forward to working with her,” Legato said.

“I look forward on getting something _real_ to drink,” Helfist grumbled.

“We’ll work on it,” Aevar promised. “Come on, let’s get started on our work so we can get our executioners off our back.”

 

* * *

 

The hallways of the fucking monastery were a damned maze. Maeva must’ve spent an hour walking down hallways. Or maybe it was the same fucking hallway; they all looked exactly alike.

 _“Dammit, how do those fuckin’ women not get lost?”_ She grumbled. Night was falling, and lanterns were being lit by servitors up and down the hallway. Fortunately, the hallways were big enough that she wouldn’t touch one accidentally. The fucking things gave her the shivers. She made the mark of aversion on her neck as she passed one by.

“Sister, are you lost?”

That made Maeva jump. She spun, and saw one of the many warrior nuns behind her, wearing simple cloth robes.

_“Damn, yer a quiet one.”_

“I’m…sorry? I don’t know the language you speak,” the Sister said, her brow furrowing.

Maeva hissed. Damned High Gothic.

“Sorry, not from ‘round here,” she said, making an effort to switch from Juvik to the foreign language.

“Oh! My apologies, but you seem awfully old to be an aspirant.”

“Na, na, came with th’ Vlka,” she said. “I’m an assistant.”

“I see,” the Sister said. Her eyes traveled across Maeva’s face, looking at her scars. “Are you a warrior, by chance? You seem very acquainted with battle.”

“Yea, I’ve been in a few scraps.” Damn, but she was a cute one. Little soft around the edges, but her arms betrayed a strict exercise regimen. And her chest…

“Bringing ruin to the Emperor’s enemies is the greatest joy we can afford,” the Sister smiled.

“I wouldn’t say greatest, but it’s up there,” Maeva smiled. Then she stopped.

Dammit, she forgot about fucking Geist. Maeva nearly hissed, remembering her promise to the assassin.

“Hey, look, I’m a bit lost, yea?” She said, trying not to stare. The robes the Sister were in were flat, but that just made her want to see what she was like without them even more. “Think ya could help me find my room?”

“I would be happy to help,” the Sister said, smiling radiantly. Damn that Geist. “Please, this way.”

The Sister expertly walked down the hallways of the monastery, taking turns with grace and authority.

“How are you enjoying our humble monastery?” She asked.

“This is humble?” Maeva chuckled. “Got a strange way a showin’ humble. Place is fuckin’ massive.”

“I assure you, this is a humble monastery. The Order of the Valorous Heart does not like finery; it detracts from our faith and devotion.”

“Yea, sounds good. Damn, how do ya find yer way ‘round this place?”

“Lots of practice,” the Sister said. She was all smiles. It made her heart flutter seeing a beauty like that.

“Might need yer help if I’m gonna be livin’ here,” Maeva said slyly. Then she remembered Geist.

“This one would be happy to show you around.”

“Great,” she grumbled. “Yea, I’d like…Wait.”

Maeva stopped dead in her tracks.

“Is something wrong?” The Sister asked, turning around.

“Who are you?”

“This one would hope you would remember her.”

“Dammit, don’t do tha!’”

The Sister demurely laughed, her skin rippling until she changed until the black-clad assassin stood in front of her.

“This one is happy to finally have a suitable disguise,” Geist said.

“Th’ fuck ya doin’ this fer?” Maeva seethed.

“To see if you were able to spot this one while in disguise. She is happy that she had passed muster.”

“Yea, it’s a real good disguise,” Maeva grumbled. “Nearly had me hittin’ on ya.”

“And how is that a bad thing?”

“’Cus I said I’d try ta cut down on tha’ sorta thin’.”

“This one…your self-control is truly admirable.” Geist was wearing her mask, but Maeva could see the corners of her mouth perk up in a smile.

“Yea, an’ I’m gonna need every shred of it ta live through this Hel.”

“Hell?”

“Oh yea, this place is fuckin’ Hel,” Meavea said. “Come on, it’s a whole fuckin’ buildin’ fulla hot, single women who hardly see any men! Have ya seen some of th’ scars these chicks have, ‘r how strong they are? Fuck, if it wasn’t fer ya, I’d be finger-deep in heaven right now.”

“These are your death world habits, are they not?”

“Gotta get out an’ play th’ field, ya know?”

“This one has an idea.”

“I don’t like th’ tone in yer voice…”

“You ‘play the field’ with the Sisters you want, and this one will attempt to fool you.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You enjoy spending time with this one, as well as intimate time with others. So chase them. This one will simply assume new disguises to blend in, and become the object of your affection.”

“Wait, you’re lettin’ me go out an’ chase tail, without getting’ pissy?”

“This one has seen you since before arriving on the planet.”

“When th’ fuck was that?”

“This one is as assassin; she is not meant to be seen,” Geist said with a hint of slyness. “She has seen you uphold your word admirably. In her training, she has been told that to make relationships work, compromises must be made; trust must be built. It would not be fair to have this one change everything about you without first changing herself.”

“So you’ll let me play th’ field? What do you get out of it?”

“Instead of you trying to seduce this one, she will to seduce you.”

That got Maeva to blink.

“Ah, so you’ll be tryin’ ta pull th’ wool over my eyes,” she grinned. “Get me thinkin’ yer just another Sister. Ya think I won’t be able ta figure ya out?”

“You didn’t five minutes ago.”

That got Maeva to grin.

“Won’t be much of a Fenrisian if I didn’t step up ta a challenge. Yer on.”

“This one has had time to work with adapting her disguises to avoid detection. She looks forward to tricking you again.”

“You cheeky little bitch,” Maeva laughed. “I ever tell ya how much I like ya? By th’ way, how the Hel do ya know yer way ‘round this place?”

“This one has had time to study the maps of the monastery. She has memorized them all, and is familiar with the location.”

“Damn, yer scary.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Hel no. Fenrisians only like things tha’ scare us.”

 

* * *

 

The massive armor stood silently. Even though it was empty, Legato could feel eyes drilling into him. Weighing him, measuring him, and finding him wanting.

“I haven’t seen such beauty since I beheld the Emperor’s flawless gene-seed,” he said. “Truly, forbidden knowledge was used to create this.”

“Morkai’s balls, Legato, you say that _every_ damn week,” Aevar laughed.

“Surely, it must be true,” Croan said. “This armor is something we could never create.”

“Tha’s ‘cus ya got yer noses stuffed in some dusty tome.”

Legato stared at Maeva. Never had he heard a mortal talk back to a Space Marine, let alone as blatantly as she did.

“Your assistant has quite the tongue,” Croan said, giving her a hard look.

“From what she tells me, she’s quite good with it,” Aevar chuckled. “Speaking of which, you have any luck with the Sisters here?”

“I’m workin’ on it, yea?” She grinned.

“You let her talk back like this?” Legato asked.

“Why not? I shit just like everyone else; no need to go around worshipping the ground we walk on. Besides, Fenrisians like things straightforward. Keeps us humble.”

“It is a little…off-putting,” Croan said. “When I dealt with mortals, they have always used the proper respect.”

“You’ll get their respect when you cave some xenos’ face in,” Aevar said. He looked over at Croan’s work. “You got the circuitry wrong.”

“This is how it was taught to me.”

“And is that ‘machine-spirit’ able to drive the capacitor bank now?”

“No,” Croan said tightly.

“Then you’ll have to do it the way I showed you.”

“But it flies in the face of the Mechanicus! This is blasphemy.”

“Good thing I’m called the Blasphemer then, right?” He laughed.

Croan huffed, but did what Aevar told him. Sure enough, the simple bank of capacitors lit up a testing light.

“Once again, you have done all the work, and I have learned nothing,” Croan said.

“Oh, for the love of Russ, it’s only been what, three weeks?” Aevar groaned. “Give it some time, you’ll get better. Once you get the hang of this, you’ll know how to make a proper shield generator.”

“And this is the armor’s augmented generator?” Legato asked, walking over. Blasphemies or not, he had to get away from the empty look of the Cataphractii armor.

“Aye, that it does. See, the trigger is tied to the potentiometer. Once it senses a force stronger than a few hundred Newtons, strong enough to get past the pot, it’ll trip the capacitor bank there, and those’ll hit the generator. Once it hits the generator, well, you know the rest. Least, I _think_ that’s how it works…”

‘“Amazing. And this can improve the sensitivity of the generator?”

“Pretty damn sure.”

“You have…you have just created better shield generators for Terminator armor, without using a dedicated storm shield.”

“Shoulda seen him ‘fore he found that out,” Maeva said. “Cussin’ up a storm he was!”

“So the mighty Space Wolf finally cursed,” Croan grinned. “Maybe we can finally hear some of your colorful language.”

“That’s right, you never _did_ hear me break into a real tear. Well, you’re sure in the right place for it.”

There was a knock at the door, but before Aevar could say anything, a team of Sisters opened the door. Leading them was Canoness Lynia, wearing thick, yet simple and unstylish, black robes.

“Greetings, Blasphemer,” she said pleasantly. “How goes your foray into damnation?”

“Making good progress,” Aevar smiled back. He nodded to the armed and armored Sisters. “Making a statement there, or do all of your Sisters only have armor to wear?”

“They are free to wear what they want,” Lynia said. “They simply feel off-put by your blasphemies.”

“But not you?”

“I think you are a misguided soul, wandering down dark paths. My hopes are that, by seeing the Emperor’s light, you will return to His side.”

“And you can do this without your armor? Where’s the famed violence of the Sisters of Battle?”

“Compassion comes first.”

“Canoness-Preceptor Lynia, are you seducing me?”

That got a peel of laughter from both Maeva and Croan. The Sisters standing guard didn’t react favorably. But Lynia simply smiled.

“My dear brother, I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, don’t give me that, you old bat!” Aevar roared.

“We have a ship dropping out of the warp,” Lynia laughed. “It is a cruiser that is carrying the rest of your prison guards.”

Aevar gave her a sideways look.

“Did I say prison guards?” She mused. “I meant executioners. The new team of executioners are here to guard you.”

“I love it when you talk frank,” Aevar said. “Well, let’s go meet these executioners.”

Legato took a frantic second to put his tools back in order, then ran to follow the Space Marines and the sisters. He followed Maeva, who walked behind them.

“How are you acclimatizing to the planet?” He asked her.

“Too fuckin’ hot,” she said. “But th’ sisters are nice, yea?”

“They seem…brusque.”

“Part a th’ charm, yea? Gotta find a good way ta talk with ‘em.”

“You talk to the sisters?”

“When I can. Wha’, ya think I’m gonna stay cooped up in this hole in th’ ground, workin’ my fingers to th’ bone? Na, I gotta get out an’ meet some women.”

“I…see. Yes, humans are social creatures; I’m sure making friends would be a nice thing.”

“Tha’s one way to call it,” Maeva grinned. She winked at a passing Sister.


	18. How Wolves Make Friends

Canoness Lynia led Aevar and his motley crew through the labyrinth-like monastery, eventually exiting towards the very same landing pad that welcomed them. Parsef and Helfist were waiting for them.

“Dammit, how th’ fuck do they walk ‘round this fuckin’ city without gettin’ lost?” Maeva cursed from the back of the group.

“I’d like to know that myself,” Legato admitted.

“It is repetition,” Lynia said. “I have faith you’ll pick up on it.”

From the sky, a pair of Thunderhawk gunships broke through the clouds. They floated down in perfect harmony, coming about for an easy landing. A few seconds after them, a strange ship broke through the cloud line, the color of the Space Wolves’ armor.

“Well, look at that, our company from home has arrived,” Helfist said.

The new ship shot downwards, like it was intent on crashing into the planet. It flew between the two Thunderhawks, missing them by mere feet. The Thunderhawks’ engines roared to life, braking and spinning to miss the rocketing ship. Once it flew passed the Thunderhawks, the Wolf’s ship began breaking.

“It’s coming in too fast,” Legato gasped.

“Damn fools, are they trying to crash?” Croan hissed.

 With a matter of meters to the landing pad, the engines spat out even more thrust. Legato could feel his heart and stomach twist at the obvious abuse of the ship’s machine-spirit. How could they push the sacred thing so hard?

But push they did, and they landed with a heavy clang instead of a devastating crashing. Above them, the Thunderhawk gunships were spinning, trying to regain their precision landing. Out of synch, the ships moved in to land independently.

Aevar and Helfist laughed, and walked out to the ship. The front boarding ramp fell down, and a team of Space Wolves walked out, none worse for the wear.

“Ha! Look at ‘em!” Maeva laughed, pointing at the spinning Thunderhawks.

“Damn fool Space Wolves,” Croan said. But Legato could hear a hint of admiration in his voice.

“Are you...praising the wolves?” Lynia asked.

“It was a damn fool maneuver, but it took one hell of a pilot to pull off,” Croan said. “See how close they passed by? It takes a keen eye, steady hands and nerves of steel to pull that off.”

“And a lack of sanity,” Lynia added.

“And what of the abuse of the machine spirit?” Legato said. “Those poor engines must have been redlined to stop them from crashing!”

“Eh, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Maeva said with a dismissive wave. “They like it rough, yea?”

“’They like it rough?’ You’re mad!”

“An’ yer borin’.”

At the landing pad, Aevar and Helfist were jovially greeting the team of Space Wolves in their native tongue. They were slapping their armor and laughing loud, with plenty of pointing at the landing Thunderhawks.

An Ultramarine was first to storm out, wearing his full battle plate. A regal red cape billowed behind him, and he carried a helmet in the crook of his left arm, a red feathered crest arcing across the top of the helm. Despite his majestic look, he had bags under his eyes, as if he never slept. Even with his exhausted appearance, it didn’t dampen the fury leaked from his eyes.

“Who commands this…this rebellious bunch?” He demanded.

“Oh no, there goes the Ultramarine,” Croan sighed. “Come on, better step in and keep them from trading blows.”

“Who gave the order for that reckless descent?” The Ultramarine yelled. “It was completely against regulations! You endangered everyone with that suicidal stunt!”

“But we didn’t kill anyone now, did we?” A black-haired Space Wolf said, stepping forward. His shoulder pad was red and black. “I’m Blaeing Silverwolf. Now who the Hel are you?”

“I am Julas Domius!” He spat back. “Sergeant of Squad Octavian, the Swords of Judgment, Second Company of the Ultramarines! And just who do you think you are, breaking protocol and rank to…to…to show off?”

“We’re here to back up our brother Ironclaws here,” Silverwolf said, nodding to Aevar. “If we knew your pilots wouldn’t be up for some simple aerial moves, we would’ve taken our time.”

“’Simple aerial moves?’ You endangered the lives of everyone in the sky!”

“Were we wrong to assume your pilots would be good enough to adjust to a simple disruption?” Blaeing grinned. The Ultramarine’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

“Hold, brother,” Croan said, running up. “Please, stay your wrath. The Space Wolves are simply happy to see their brothers.”

“They need to obey proper protocol,” Sergeant Julas spat. “But what could I expect from the feral wolves of Fenris?”

“You could expect a lot more liveliness here.”

“Come now, Silverwolf,” Aevar said. “We just got here! Plenty of time to get at each other’s throats later.”

“Speaking of getting here, you got my message?” Helfist asked.

“That we did.” Legato wondered why he was called ‘Silverwolf’ when there was no silver on his hair. “Damn shame. What are our sisters thinking, living without any source of fun?”

“’Source of fun?’” Julas said. “You expect every waking moment to be a thrill? We need to remain vigilant, not shirking our sacred duty!”

“Hold, brother,” Lynia said, stepping up. “I’m certain the Space Wolves are just trying to upset you. You can’t let them have their way.”

“Canoness Lynia speaks true,” Croan said. “We must hold our tempers.”

The Ultramarine glared, but relented.

“Very well. May I talk to you, Canoness? Perhaps in your chambers, away from the _rabble?_ ”

“Ooh, he called us _rabble,_ ” Silverwolf mocked.

“With pleasure. A team of Sisters shall show you to your quarters,” Lynia said. At her very word, three armed Sisters stepped forward.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to get ready,” Aevar said. “We got a treat for you.”

“And to what do we owe the pleasure of getting such a ‘treat?’” Lynia asked.

“Just for putting us up.”

“’Putting you up?’ You are here by order of the Mechanicus. One does not simply argue with both the Fabricator-General and the Inquisition.”

“Stop trying to take the fun out of it, will you ya old bat?” Aevar laughed. The armed Sisters’ eyes widened at the insult. But Lynia just smiled.

“Just keep your brothers in line,” she laughed.

“Can’t guarantee anything. These Blood Claws are our recruits, and they tend to get a little rowdy. But we’ll work on it, don’t you worry.”

“You’re not allaying my fears.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Helfist grinned. Behind him, Legato saw the ‘Blood Claws,’ the recruits in full power armor, moving massive wooden barrels from the maw of the ship.

“Is it just me, or did the temperature suddenly drop?” Croan said.

“No, I got shivers down my spine as well,” Legato said.

“Then I shall put my faith in your work, and pray to the Emperor that nothing bad shall happen,” Lynia said. “Brother Croan, would you help me welcome the rest of the executioners?”

“It would be my pleasure,” the massive tech marine bowed. “Come, Legato, let’s leave the wolves to their own devices, and hope that we live to see the morning.”

 

* * *

 

The Sister’s meal hall was, once again, dead silent as the sisters prayed. Croan was expecting at least uneasy shifting from the Space Wolves, but they were as quiet as the sisters. That, surprisingly, made him feel even more uneasy.

“Ave Imperator,” Lynia said, spreading her arms from her spot at the head table.

“Ave Imperator,” the sisters repeated. They then went to passing food around, giving each other helpings before eating themselves.

The Space Wolves ate at a table at the edge of the hall, foregoing their armor and wearing simple clothes. Across from them was the table that the rest of the Space Marine guards ate at, and they all remained in their armor. Croan couldn’t help but be amazed; counting him and the Wolves, the Sisters were playing host to a full count of First-Founding Chapters, traitors excluded.

At the head of the Space Marine executioner table was Julas Domius. Of course an Ultramarine would go for the head of the table. From his spot at Lynia’s side, Croan couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

A pounding went up. It was one person at first, but others quickly joined in, making it sound like a squad of Marines were marching.

It was the Space Wolves. They were pounding the table with their fists, some with pewter flagons. Some drinks were spilt. They were setting rhythm for a song. From the Space Marine’s table, Julas gave a hard look towards the rambunctious Marines.

“What, in the Emperor’s holy name, are they doing?” Parsef demanded.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Croan muttered.

The words barely left his mouth when the Space Wolves started singing, and in High Gothic to boot.

 

_No man could beat the Bloody Nine, he’s killed more men than cold._

_Five hundred stood against his might, five hundred threads he cut._

_When trav’ling to small town’s edge, he got a mighty thirst._

_He walked through nearest tavern’s doors, for drink and for some warmth._

At the mention of ‘warmth,’ they all grabbed their crotches. Croan winced, Legato blanched, and Parsef choked on his drink, but the Sisters all impassively watched.

 

_He found inside, to his surprise, no men to meet his gaze._

_For inside lining all the walls were only shield maidens!_

_Some tall, some short, some in-between, some bustier than most._

_A welcome sight for lonely eyes, and lonelier bed rolls!_

The Sisters looked on, eyes hard. Legato looked like he was about to pass out. A small serving door barged open, and Maeva walked in, pushing a cart full of bottles. Hearing the song, she joined in.

 

_He got a mighty thirst and greed, his britches seemed to tight._

_He took a woman and a drink, and planned to stay the night!_

_When from the walls, swords were drawn, and axes smiled bright._

_The Bloody Nine, he grinned and smiled, ‘no man could dare kill me!’_

Hearing Maeva join in, the Wolves laughed and slapped their thighs, and took the drinks she brought, bringing her into the chanting.

 

_They charged, they fought from tooth to nail, each blow was struck with glee._

_No man could kill him, yes, it’s true, but he wasn’t face’n men!_

_They hewed his member from his loins, they shoved it down his throat._

_The Bloody Nine made one mistake: don’t fuck with Valkyries!_

The Space Wolves bellowed the last line, holding their glasses high. They downed their drinks, laughing and slapping each other. But they showed odd caution to Maeva, making sure to not throw their arms around when she was near.

Parsef wasn’t the only one off-put by their chant. Julas was glaring death at them, but the Sisters still watched quietly. It came as a shock to Croan as he saw a few Sisters break from their stone neutral faces, laugher and smiles slipping out.

From the Space Marine table, a White Scar burst out laughing. His brothers quickly turned on him, glaring harshly at him.

“…What?” The White Scar said.

“Come on over, brother, plenty of room,” Helfist yelled. “Move over, damn you! Come on!”

Sure enough, the Space Wolves moved, making a spot for the White Scar. Grinning, he got up and joined them at the table. A bottle was shoved into his hands, and like that, he was one of them.

“W-what is going on?” Legato asked.

“I think this is how the Wolves make friends,” Croan said.

“Or enemies,” Parsef spat.

“Why not both?” Lynia asked, a small, tight grin on her face.

From the other end of the hall, a cadre of Sisters stood. The Wolves silenced each other, and their din quickly fell.

One Sister tapped out a quick measure, and as one, they began chanting. Some were setting the tone, while others set the pace. The mixture of voices was perfect.

 

_Goge Vandire, High Lord of Terra._

_Ruled with a great and terrible power._

_Darkness clouded his eyes, temptations ran wild._

_Gathering power tight in his grip,_

_Brought shame to all, and from the Emperor._

As they sang, more and more Sisters stood, each voice adding to the chant. With the growing number of Sisters joining in song, their voices echoed through the hall, growing in fervor and beauty.

 

_But lo, from His mighty hand, a herald came,_

_A bearer of His word, to show the light of day._

_Truth was shown, illuminating all,_

_As the Brides, we were wicked, corrupted from within._

“I never thought I would hear Sisters sing like this,” Croan said.

“I’ve never even _heard_ them sing before,” Parsef admitted.

“We’re full of surprises,” Lynia said, and stood to sing herself.

 

_The demagogue had usurped his power,_

_But held none of the true radiance._

_When faced with the truth, the glorious truth,_

_He wavered and he gasped._

The other Marines seemed to truly revel in the singing, as if they were washing the barbaric chant of the Wolves from their ears. Julas was enjoying it the most; his eyes were closed as if he was praying. Then again, with the bags under his eyes, he might be sleeping, too.

 

_When Sister stepped to take the traitor’s head,_

_No mind could show him his fate._

_With gasping mouth, he relented to his fate._

The song came to an end on a rousing held note. The echoes continued to sound through the massive hall. The table of Space Marines seemed exceptionally pleased that the sisters sung a truly stirring song. Even the wolves were grudgingly nodding, admitting that the sisters truly knew how to sing.

Canoness Lynia raised her hands, and the sisters began again, but this time, the tempo picked up, tripling from the slow chant of before.

 

_Our honor sullied, our virtues torn,_

_We stood against the Emperor._

_But we took Goge’s fucking head_

_To redeem our sins. Let all know!_

They weren’t singing; they were yelling, shouting their devotion, pounding on the tables.

 

_Should they turn their backs to light_

_We shall burn them so._

_And if they think them above us,_

_We’ll take their fucking heads as well!_

As one, the Sisters pounded their tables in perfect unison. That got the Space Marines to start, and the wolves to laugh. Seeing Julas, the Ultramarine, caught off-guard got them to really roll around.

“That was perfect!” Aevar roared. “The looks on their faces!”

The wolves raised a drink to the sisters, who raised their glasses of water back. The toast complete, they both drank deep.

“Come on over,” the wolves baited, waving the sisters closer. Many refused, but a few stood and walked over to chat, much to the wolves’ pleasure. Croan saw Aevar’s mortal assistant, Maeva, look excited, getting the chance to talk to fellow women. Julas looked on with undisguised disappointment. Now Croan _had_ to throw it in their faces. He stood up.

“Where are you going?” Legato asked.

“I am going to make some friends as well,” he said. “It is not every day that one gets to hear a Space Wolf battle song, a Sisters’ chant, _and_ get the chance to disappoint an Ultramarine all in a single evening.”

“Ha! Our brothers feud like a spinster’s circle!” Lynia laughed.

“Do not go telling everyone you meet,” Croan smiled, flashing his teeth.

“I have to admit, there is something vaguely satisfying in watching the high and mighty Ultramarine glower in disgust. I think I’ll join you.”

“Canoness, is that really necessary?” Parsef asked.

“I think we should get to know each other better, seeing as they’ll be here forever.”

“As I am sure the Wolves would say, ‘the more, the merrier,’” Croan said. He offered the Canoness an arm, which she demurely took. Together, they walked to the wolves’ table.

“Another brother arrives!” Aevar cheered. “And a sister, as well!”

“Thank you for the song, Blasphemer,” Lynia smiled. “It was…not what we were expecting.”

“I could say the same about your chant right there. All smooth, mournful even, and then wham! You take the fucker’s head! Ha ha!”

“How are the sisters taking your company?” Croan asked, nodding to the small group of sisters who had walked over. Maeva had met them, and was enthusiastically talking with them.

“Well enough. We’ll get them to loosen up.”

“I see they haven’t been viciously assaulted yet,” Lynia said dryly.

“What the fuck do you take us for?” Aevar snapped, suddenly glaring death. The change nearly made Croan flinch. But Lynia held her ground as well as he did.

“Good, you got real steel in your spine,” Aevar smiled, glad she passed his strange test. “And I got to say, I didn’t expect such a spirited greeting from the Sisters.”

“We all have our surprises,” Lynia laughed.

“Hold the damned vox,” Aevar gasped. “Is that a fucking _tongue piercing_ you got there, Canoness?”

Croan stared at the Canoness, who closed her mouth so fast it audibly snapped. She blushed heavily.

“I was not always a Canoness,” she finally said. She spoke through clenched teeth, but had a slight grin on her lips.

“So, you aren’t totally boring,” Aevar roared. “Uh-oh, look out, the Guardians of the Codex arrives.”

Croan looked up. Sure enough, Julas was storming up.

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded, looking quite flustered in his fine armor.

“Just making friends and sharing cultures,” Ironclaws grinned. “We’re being social.”

“You call this social?”

“Aye, we do. See? This here is Bortei, a White Scar. Croan is getting along with the Canoness, of whom we found out something _very_ interesting, and my assistant is leaning how the Sisters lick—er, tick. See? We’re getting along.”

“What is that you are drinking?” The Ultramarine demanded.

“Liquid,” Aevar evasively, smugly, replied.

“What _kind_ of liquid?”

“Some mead we got from home.”

“Ah, so that explains those barrels you pulled from your ship,” Lynia said.

“Why, sister, I don’t know what you mean,” the Space Wolf grinned.

“You freely partake in alcohol?” Julas spat. “You are a disgrace to the Emperor’s name!”

The Wolves at the table turned to the Ultramarine.

“Careful there, smurf,” Aevar said, a hard edge in his voice. “You talk shit, you get hit.”

“You think I fear you? Do you really think that I fear unwashed, unkempt, loud-mouth alcoholic dog fuckers?” Jules said, taking a step forward. “I am a Guardian of Ultramar! I have seen countless horrors, and the only thing that scares me is your stench!”

That got the wolves to stand up, hate in their eyes. Croan noticed that the hall had grown quiet, with all the eyes shifting onto the group of Marines.

“Might want to take those words back, smurf,” Aevar snarled, taking a step forward.

“Or what?” Julas said, matching his step. They were chest-to-chest. “Will you waft more of your stench at me?”

Those two idiots were really going to fight. Croan pushed himself between the two, trying to stop them. He put a hand on Aevar’s chest, and a hand on Julas’ pauldron.

“Aevar, please, this is neither the time, nor the place for a fight.”

“I think it’s the perfect time and place. Our brother wants to have words, so let’s have words.”

“You will have more from me, dog,” Julas barked.

“Big talk from a man who needs armor to do his walking for him.”

“Blasphemer! You think you can stand--!”

“You are all in _my_ hall,” Lynia said. Despite her mortal stature, she spoke with such authority that both Aevar and Julas paused. “All of you will hold your tempers!”

“The Canoness is right,” Croan said. “Besides, the wolves are trying to bait you.”

“This Blasphemer thinks he can—“

“I said _peace_ , brother!” Lynia snapped, voice full of rage and authority. Even Julas was caught off-guard. “You will respect my rank, and listen to my command!”

“Julas, please,” Croan said. “The wolves want a fight. You are only giving them what they want.”

With both Croan and Lynia getting between the two, the wolves knew a fight wasn’t going to happen. They grumbled and cursed, kicking the ground.

“Dammit, and I was hoping this would ruffle enough feathers,” Aevar sighed, his anger suddenly gone.

“You…you wanted this?” Julas sputtered.

“We’re the Emperor’s Angels of Death,” Aevar said. “We’re ill-suited for peace. Just have to throw some punches to make us all right as rain.”

“You are something else,” Lynia said, shaking her head. Her tone was full of disappointment, but her facial scars twisted, betraying a smile. “Do not cause trouble for us in this hall. That is an order. As punishment for this…ruffling of feathers, clear the tables.”

A few sisters reacted, breathing sighs of relief or even pumping their fists as they were freed of their duty. But it wasn’t enough to hide from Lynia’s gaze.

“You have just joined them,” she barked at them.

“Yes, Canoness,” they obediently bowed.

 “It looks like dinner is over. The tables need to be cleaned. Get to work.”

The hall was massive; it would take a very long time to properly clean. But the wolves just laughed.

“Aye, sure, we’ll get it cleaned.”

“Good. Brother Croan, let’s leave the barbarians to their work,” Lynia smiled.

“’Scuse me, Canon-miss?”  From the small group of Sisters came Maeva, Aevar’s assistant. “Er, yea, I ain’t a member of th’ Sky Warriors, so, can I just…”

“Yes, you can be excused. Though we’ll have to work on your language; you’re barely fluent.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, it’s th’ death world in me actin’ up,” Maeva smiled.

“Quite a…colorful bunch,” Lynia sighed as they left the hall. “We will teach her soon enough.”

“I have seen how stubborn the Space Wolves are. It would take quite the effort to bring them to heel.”

 

* * *

 

“Fekka, we dodged a bullet there,” Maeva said. “Tha’ halls too damn big ta clean. Sephoris, tha’ scary dragon-lady followin’ us?”

“I don’t think so,” the Sister of Battle said from behind her. She had chatting her up in the meal hall, and the red-haired Sister was awfully receptive to her flirting.

“Good, we’d be there fer days.”

“It _is_ a very big hall, isn’t it?” Sophoris grinned. Damn, was she cute. Maeva couldn’t wait to see her scars.

“I can think more ‘n a few thin’s ta do than clean a damn hall,” Maeva grinned.

“And what few things would those be?” Sephoris asked, catching the gleam in her eye.

“Ain’t ya worried ‘bout stayin’ true ta th’ Emperor an’ all tha?’” Maeva chuckled.

“This one isn’t that worried about it,” Sephoris smiled.

“Oh, that’s a right relief—wait.”

Sephoris grinned, her skin rippling minutely.

“Dammit, Geist!”

“This one has fooled you yet again,” the assassin said, breaking from the voice of her assumed shape. “She is back in top form.”

“Oh, come on, tha’ ain’t fair.”

“Are you truly upset with this one for tricking you?”

Mavea had to think for a second.

“Ya know, not really.”

“This one is pleased to hear it.”

“Shut up and get back ta my room.”

“Does this one need to show you the way again?” The assassin grinned in her assumed form.

“…Yes.”

“Follow this one.”

“Thanks,” Maeva mumbled. “I’ll get it one day, yea?”

“Is there anything else this one can do for you?” Geist asked.

“I got a number a thin’s in mind. But, ya think ya could stay like that? Lookin’ like that Sister with red hair?”

“For you,” the assassin smiled, “anything.”

 

* * *

 

Helfist gently walked through the monastery and gingerly pushed open the heavy door to old man Ironclaws’ new layer. As usual, the three Iron Priests were busy working.

“Well, look what the cold blew in,” Aevar said. “You busy making new friends?”

“Challenged Bortei to a drinking contest after we cleaned the damn hall,” he mumbled, easing himself into a nearby chair. “Turns out that fucking White Scar can hold his liquor. He’s gotta have a hollow right leg or something; I don’t know where he put it all.”

“Thought you looked a little hung over. You need an ice boat to get you going?”

“Just need some time to get over this,” he groaned. “So, what are you planning today, Aevar?”

“The same thing we try to do every day, Vermund. Try to save the Imperium.”

“Tall order right there.”

“And getting taller by the second,” Legato sighed. “This…this is lost technology. It is beyond us.”

“Bah! You just have to follow what I tell you, open your mind to doing new things.”

“Please, not too loud,” Helfist mumbled. It went unheard.

“And damn our souls for all eternity,” Croan said.

“What hunt would be complete if the hunter wasn’t hunted himself?”

“That sounds familiar. Tell me, did you say that before or after you thought you brought Chaos into the Emperor’s Throne Room?”

“Low blow.”

“Think of it as a warning. You burned once; the next time you will not be so lucky. It does not help that you are already standing amongst a massive pile of kindling, surrounded by men and women who would gladly see you roast.”

“How were you burned the first time?” Helfist asked.

“He went into the Emperor’s private library,” Legato said. “Found something that…changed him. He spent three months in a cell, being tested for corruption.”

“If the Grey Knights want to ‘ask me a few questions,’ do me the favor and kill me. I’d rather not do that again.”

“Speaking of the Grey Knights, did they leave?” Helfist asked. “I haven’t seen them since…shit, since the execution force landed with Captain Killjoy.”

“That probably means that they are examining the monastery for corruption and other foul things,” Croan said.

“Examining what? This is a Shrine World, the entire planet worships the Allfather.”

“’The duty of the righteous is never done,’” Legato recited. He spoke automatically, without thinking. He seemed as surprised as everyone else that he spoke.

“I have not heard you mention any of the Imperial Teachings since we started our work on Holy Terra,” Croan said.

“I…yes, that’s right.”

“Didn’t take you for a righteous man, tech priest,” Helfist said. “Thought you’d be too busy worshipping the machine spirit.”

“That’s…as of late, I’ve had a bit of a…crisis in faith,” Legato mumbled.

“Get in line,” Aevar snorted.

 _“Don’t you fucking start,”_ Vermund snapped, switching back to the guttural language of Juvik. _“Not fucking here!”_

“I know, I know,” Aevar said, waving a dismissive hand to the Rune Priest. “Besides, I found most of the bugs Parsef planted. Muted out the rest with a privacy screen.”

_“Doesn’t mean you can blab about ‘that!’”_

“Do I want to know what you two are speaking about?” Croan asked.

“You really don’t. Not unless you like getting burned yourself,” Aevar said.

“And _not_ learn from your mistake? Please.”

“Good. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. That is, if you could ever get that fucking circuit working.”

“This is not the way the Mechanicus have taught us,” Croan protested.

“Yea, you have to do it differently. And look where it got me.” Aevar jerked his thumb at the ancient patterned Terminator armor.

“And look where it got you,” Croan replied, gesturing to the massive room they were in.

“Touché,” Aevar chuckled humorlessly.

“S-so what will we do?” Legato asked.

“This might be ‘forbidden technology,’ but we ain’t burning yet, and it beats the fuck outta working on the Throne, doesn’t it?”

“As loathe as I am to admit it, the little wolf is right,” Croan mumbled.

“You were working on the Golden Throne?” Helfist asked.

“Oath of silence, remember, Vermund?”

“Ah, that little thing.”

“And this work is much better than the Throne, so I say we keep at it. I’m expected to crank out more Cataphractii-pattern armor, more guns, more shields, more…fuck, what does the Mechanicus want?

“Aside from having you teach us your rediscovered techniques,” Croan said, “they were purposely vague.”

Aevar’s shoulders dropped when he heard Croan mention him teaching. It was as if old man Ironclaws didn’t want to teach, or wasn’t able. If Helfist wasn’t as hung over as he was, he might have caught it.

“Fucking typical. Well, guess that means I better just make as much shit as I can,” Ironclaws grumbled. “Everyone might not want to say it, but I’m the goose that laid the golden egg. They need me.”

“All but Parsef.”

“Ah, he’s just doing his job,” Aevar said, dismissively waving the notion away. “So what if his job makes him think I’m a walking daemonhost waiting to happen? I’m glad he’s not star-struck with my ‘blessings’ from the great and mighty ‘Omnimissiah.’ If he was, he might not kill me if I do become a daemonhost.”

“Don’t mock the Omnimissiah!” Legato protested.

Aevar blinked, as if he realized what he just said.

“You’re right,” he said. “Sorry, just…this whole thing is fucked, yea?”

“Finally clicked with you, eh?” Helfist said. “After standing before the whole Chapter, the Mechanicus and the Inquisition, _now_ he finally gets an idea of the shit he’s in.”

“The shit _we’re_ in,” Aevar corrected. “And I always knew. Just…damn, taking a step back and looking at it really fucks with you.”

“I’m still not over the scare of nearly being branded a traitor legion,” Helfist said.

“Y-you were scared?” Legato asked. He’d never heard a Space Marine admitting fear.

“That might be the only thing that we truly fear,” Croan said. “Turning traitor. And with good cause.”

“Ain’t no shame admitting that,” Helfist said. He shook his head, as if trying to get a particularly nasty thought from his head.

“I am awfully curious,” Croan said, “what are you doing to occupy your neophytes?”

“I got ‘em putting some warding runes all over the place.”

“And the Sisters and the Grey Knights don’t mind that you are carving runes into their building?”

“Mind? Some of ‘em are helping! They both hate the warp just as much as we do.”

“Speaking of a helping hand, I’ll need to drop by and bother Lynia sometime,” Aevar said. “That tongue piercing caught me off-guard. Need to see if there’s anything else interesting about her.”

“Best of luck to you, brother. That’s one scary dragon lady,” Helfist said. “Well, gene-seed kicked in, and the hangover’s gone; guess that means I gotta get to work.”

“Have at, and don’t work too hard,” Ironclaws said.

“Kinda have to. I’m also working on brewing some mead and mjod.”

“You’re brewing alcohol?”  Legato asked.

“Of course!”

“How in the Emperor’s name are you brewing alcohol in a Sister’s monastery?” Croan asked.

“Very carefully.”

 

* * *

 

Parsef leaned back in his chair. The work of the righteous was never done, and he was kept plenty busy. He needed to prove to the Fabricator-General that the mad dogs had to be brought to heel, if only for their own protection. The High Lords of Terra were already on board; the Mechanicus was the only holdout. They were blinded by their tech lust, but Parsef would show them the error in their ways.

But the damned dog gave him nothing. Over one year of work, and they had done _nothing_. And the Mechanicus had said they would not test the trained tech priests until the first changing of the guards took place, in four years.

The galaxy couldn’t wait four years. In four years, the Blasphemer could build a whole chaos cult. He was a cancer that needed to be excised, not allowed to metastasize. Something needed to change, to prove his fall from grace.

Change. That was it. He pulled out his pocked vox caster.

“Geist, are you there?”

The device was quiet. It shouldn’t take Geist this long to report.

“Geist, report.”

 _Apologies, it was not possible for this one to respond without breaking cover,_ the caster crackled. In the background, a woman giggled. It sounded like that mortal whore, Maeva.

“Is that laughter? Are you free to talk?”

_This one is free. Ignore the laughter, it is nothing._

It sounded like Geist was hitting someone with something soft; maybe a pillow.

“Fine. Is there any hint of corruption among the wolves?”

_This one’s search has turned up empty._

“Then maybe we can change this. Aevar has been asking for more tech priests for him to tutor, to help him more; I’ll be granting him permission for more tech priests to help.”

_You were not willing to let him bring more priests in for the past Terran-standard year. May this one ask what caused the change of heart?_

“’Small leaks sink great ships.’ If there are only three men, they can keep many secrets. But if we increase the number of men he’s allowed to work with, it would increase the chances of them slipping up.”

_This one understands. You order, and she obeys._

“Good. Stay in cover, find something.”

_Understood._

It was bad that he had to resort to such a low action, but worse should the wolves fall. They had to be brought to heel, dammit, and sooner rather than later.

 

* * *

 

The heavy doors to the workshop were pushed open and Ironclaws walked in. Croan looked up past the row of Cataphractii-patterned armor, the fruit of their year and a half of work.

‘There’ work. Croan had to check himself; he, Legato, even Maeva couldn’t truly build a Cataphractii suit. They could start them, they could form the various pieces of the armor, but it was only Aevar that was somehow able to get everything to work. They were simply doing the busy work, while Aevar finished everything off.

“You are back,” the Salamander said. He gave Aevar a quick double-take; the Wolf seemed disheveled, unkempt, as if he was folding to endless stress. He was developing bags under his eyes, much like Julas had. Ever his servo-arms seemed worn out. “The Canoness had requested you halt all your work and assist her with something; were you quick to finish?”

“Na, we’re just two old farts playing a game. Gotta give the old bat some company.”

“Again? She has been pulling you away from your work an awful lot.”

“More like me getting away as much as I can. Us old people need lots of company. Check your wiring here,” Aevar said, pointing to the circuitry panel Croan was working on. “Besides, I need to blow some steam off, get away from all this damned work.”

“It is good work we are doing, even if you are doing easily three-quarters of that work.”

“Aye, gotta keep pumping out golden eggs to appease the executioners. No, that’s the diode you’re trying to solder that to. You want to feed it to the cap over there.”

“My thanks.”

“Buck up, you’re getting better.”

“I may be getting better, but you still do all of the work. Legato, Maeva and I are still not understanding even half of this.”

Aevar snorted. To Croan, it sounded very much like a ‘you and me both’ kind of dismissive snort.

“We’ll get you there sooner or later. The Mechanicus demanded you follow a strict, unthinking guideline. But you’re doing a good job of freeing your mind to think for yourself.”

“Again, my thanks. Speaking of a free mind, that Inquisitor was snooping around here again.”

“And what else is new?”

“You take the news very well.”

“Please. I’d figure Parsef would try to find a way into my stuff the second we touched down on this planet.”

“You are truly paranoid.”

“Can’t be paranoid if they really _are_ out to get me,” Aevar laughed.

“I guess there is a certain logic to that.”

“Come on, finish up with this and let’s turn this thing on.”

Screwing his eyes and doing his best to remember what Aevar showed him, Croan finished the wiring and welded the fragile machine spirit in its physical form.

“Don’t keep me waiting, hit the juice.”

Muttering a quick prayer of activation, Croan mentally linked to the armor and activated the power plant. It spun, caught, and ignited. He could see runes blinking on the eye-screens as it activated.

“Now that right there looks like a solid boot.”

“Calm yourself, machine-spirit, you are in your true form,” Croan said, gently rubbing the helm of the suit.

“Eh, don’t worry about that thing, it’ll do its job well enough,” Aevar waved dismissively. “This is, what, the seventh one you made?”

“Sixth. And I still need to remind you that you still did nearly all the work. I have only added a few touches to it.”

“You’ll get better,” he grinned. “Something’s wrong here; I can move around without having to look where I step. Where’s Legato?”

“He’s got his face buried in his scrolls, trying to make heads and tails out of the schematics of your relics.”

“Such a good little priest boy,” Aevar chuckled. He looked out at the row of armor. “This one makes a full ten, right?”

“That it does.”

“When does the Mechanicus come knocking for these things?”

“Any week now. Hard to tell with warp travel.”

“Aye, hard to tell.” Aevar looked over the row of armor, eyes lost in thought. Croan watched him intently; what was going through his mind? The past few months, he didn’t seem very sure of himself, and was finding more and more ways to avoid work, such as spending time with Canoness Lynia. It was like he was trying to break the deal the Mechanicus had so painstakingly made.

“Right, well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, breaking the spell. “Be in my chambers.”

“Don’t bar the door again.”

But then it was too late. Aevar had loped off to the side-chamber that he had claimed for his private chambers and closed the doors behind him.

“That man spends too much time in his chambers,” Croan mumbled to the newest armor. “Good thing he still has that magic touch, else our lives would have been forfeit long ago. And where would you be?”

The massive Terminator armor seemed to purr a response. Croan could feel its power, just begging to be used.

“Barely ten minutes active, and already hungry for war.” He chuckled. He felt truly sad to simply deactivate the wondrous thing, but it had no battle to fight. “Rest easy. Your time of use will come soon.”

Croan reached for his dataslate to see who would be claiming them first. He was surprised to see that the Blood Ravens would be the ones to test them.

“Blood Ravens? No doubt that they will claim they ‘found’ these somewhere else,” he muttered. Then again, it made sense; despite being scanned by the Grey Knights, many were still be wary to use them. So let a Chapter of unknown founding take the risk. If they weren’t reduced to screaming, soulless heretics, the suits must truly be safe.

“Rest,” he told the massive suits of armor. “You will be claimed soon enough.” He unconsciously pulled out a vial of oil and dabbed his fingers. He moved from suit to suit, slowly chanting a rite of blessing as he marked the helm of each suit.

 

* * *

 

Legato scribbled on yet another scroll, trying to work through the calculations that Aevar had done. The wolf always seemed to come to the right answers, but never showed his work. He was truly blessed; Aevar instinctively knew the answers, but not how to get there.

There was so much to learn, so much that went into each relic, so much no one truly understood, not even Aevar. Idly reading the notes, Legato found himself absentmindedly sketching the holy helix of the Emperor’s gene-seed.

“Enjoying your trip to damnation?”

Legato jumped. Standing above him was Julas. He wasn’t wearing his armor, but deep blue robes with embroidered sigils, a gold sash, and a power sword and bolt pistol at his waist. As usual, the bags under his eyes made him seem exhausted beyond measure, even though he stood with rapt attention.

“I did not mean to startle you,” Julas said. “You just seemed very…lost in thought.”

“Oh, yes, I was. Just looking over my notes, trying to decipher more of Aevar’s lessons.”

“Ah, the Blasphemer’s lessons. How they lead us astray.”

“They have also led us to creating new relics,” Legato pointed out. “They are a map, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Certain lines cannot be uncrossed,” Julas warned, “certain maps will get you lost. Best watch your step, priest, least you find yourself crossing a bridge too far.”

Julas’ conviction unnerved him. He believed in it so fervently, so passionately, that Legato envied him. He wanted to believe, oh Holy Omnissiah, he wanted to believe so badly. But then the Mechanicus had to ruin his faith by drafting him to work on the Golden Throne, for seeing mysteries that only the God Emperor should see.

 _I find the Imperial Teachings failing me one by one, and in the very seat of Humanity, no less,_ he had said. But he had to maintain his faith. If not for himself, then for the work they were doing.

“I will guard myself,” Legato stammered.

“Good,” Julas said. “Then there is hope for you yet.”

“Hope for…?”

“Your salvation. I know not what the Blasphemer is planning, but it cannot be with the Emperor’s best interest in mind. We are already watching him, but we need someone whom he trusts.”

“’We?’ Are you…are you trying to enlist me? I am a simple priest.”

“A simple priest who has the ear and trust of the Blasphemer.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Why not call him what he so happily embraces? If you think I am being callous, ask him yourself,” Julas said. “And ask him what he thinks he is doing, usurping the name of his Omnissiah.”

“What is it you want?” Legato asked.

“I simply wish to know if I can count on you as an ally, one who we can trust to make the right decisions, and tell us of his plans.”

“’We?’ Do you mean you and the Inquisitor? Whom are you referring about?”

“You should not disillusion yourself. The wolves make enemies easily. You have seen it yourself, have you not? Or do you not remember their…rambunctious songs they sing when they wish to be a bother?”

“How can I forget? The Sisters always have a song to respond to them.”

“It is an interesting turn of events,” Julas admitted. “But the point remains: they are too brute a force, too savage and wild. We have to watch them, least the worst come to pass, and they need to be brought to heel.”

“’The worst come to pass?’”

“There have been traitor wolves in the past. We have the chance to end this before it begins.”

Legato stiffened. Suddenly, he was back on Holy Terra, watching Aevar hanging from his cell as the Grey Knight gave him their final test.

_“Aevar Ironclaws,” the Grey Knight said, “you have been found guilty of conspiring with the evils of the Warp, for bringing Chaos and daemons into the Throne Room, in an attempt to kill the Emperor of Mankind.”_

_Tears spilled down Aevar’s face._

_“You will be put to death for your treachery. Are you ready to receive your punishment?”_

_“Yes,” Aevar cried. “Croan, you were right. You were right all along. Please, show me the true radiance you have promised, and forgive me. Forgive me, I know not what I’ve done.”_

He begged for death that day. A Space Marine, the Emperor’s Chosen, had begged for death.

“No, he can’t be a traitor,” Legato said. “I’ve seen what he has gone through. He has been examined, endlessly, and found pure at every turn. He can’t be a traitor.”

“That is what everyone says, before the traitor shows his true colors.”

Julas’ face was stoic, hard. He spoke with conviction, _knowing_ that he was in the right, was true to the cause. The adamant tone gave Legato pause.

“You’ve seen a fellow marine turn traitor.”

“Watch yourself, priest,” Julas warned. His tone changed to anger, and his baggy eyes narrowed.

“You have, haven’t you? Is that why you’re so invested in bringing Aevar to justice?”

The Ultramarine bit his tongue. He wanted to speak, but something stopped him.

“That is neither something that needs to be asked, nor should be answered. Ironclaws needs to be watched, so that his treachery can be swiftly dealt with. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Legato said, “and I believe that he can’t turn traitor.”

“Everything is eventual in this millennium. The only constant is the Emperor, and our loyalty.”

“Then my loyalty is behind the Ironclaws,” Legato said. “He is a good man, and if there is anyone who can solve the riddles of lost technology, it will be him.”

“Your faith and loyalty are commendable, but I fear you follow the wrong exemplar.”

“Then we agree to disagree.”

Julas glared at Legato. The tech priest returned the stare.

“Yes, it appears so,” Julas finally said. “Heed my words, Legato: nothing Aevar Ironclaws does will end well, for us or for the Imperium.”

“Good day, Sergeant.”

“Tech priest.”

Like that, Julas walked off. Legato was expecting a parting shot, or even some physical harassment, but the Ultramarine simply nodded, and off he went. Going behind someone’s back? He never expected Space Marines to act in such a petty manner.

 

* * *

 

Parsef strode down the hallway, Geist at his side. Behind him, a team of Grey Knights and a team of burly servitors followed. Canoness Lynia was already waiting for him at the door to the Blasphemer’s lair, a group of Sisters waiting with her.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” Lynia smiled.

“Good morning to you, too, Canoness,” Parsef said, returning the smile. “Waiting for us to delve into the wolf’s chambers?”

“I am curious to see what has been brought forth,” she said.

“The tech marines truly value their privacy, don’t they?”

“I’m sure they just like to be left alone. No one appreciates someone standing over their shoulder, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Only if their work carries no risk of summoning daemons.”

“And what work, pray tell, will that be?”

“Safe work,” Parsef said evasively. He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

A Sister knocked on the door. If she wasn’t wearing power armor, the knock would have done next to nothing; the massive door would have muted her knocks. Footsteps echoed from behind the door, and the assistant Maeva pulled the door open with a grunt.

“Hey there, Geist,” she smiled brightly. “Lynia. Ya brought some Sisters with ya.”

“That we have,” Lynia said. “Your work is needed. The Blood Ravens should be arriving soon, and we need to deliver your creations to them. May we enter?”

“Th’ way ya said tha’, it wasn’t a question,” Maeva said. But she began pushing the door open, and a Grey Knight took the invitation to pull it wide open. Croan and Legato were working on a sword as they entered.

“Inquisitor,” the Salamander said, getting to his feet. “I take it the Blood Ravens are here?”

“They will be shortly.”

“Did we bolt everything down?” He asked.

“They are a fellow Chapter, are they not?” Lynia asked. “Why would we need to secure everything?”

“No reason. But when you find a relic or two missing, let me know. I have a few credits riding on this.”

“Speaking of relics, are these ones ready to be moved?” Parsef asked.

“’Are they?'” Croan grinned. “Their spirits are chomping at the bit to get some war.” He gestured behind him to the two rows of massive red armor with bone-white colored accents, and the packaged crate of blades. “We even had time to paint them.”

“Excellent,” Parsef said. “Servitors, move them. The Ravens will be descending shortly.”

The massive, mindless servitors moved forward, on feet and on treads, towards the armor. Augmented for strength and nothing else, they easily hefted the armor and weapons.

“Where is the Blasphemer?” Parsef asked. “I’m sure the Ravens would like to thank his generous nature.”

“I’m sure you mean he wants to see the sword that hangs above their heads,” Lynia said. Parsef gave her a hard glare. “We said we would speak candidly, didn’t we?”

“I believe that was with the wolves,” the Salamander said.

“Ah, yes, that _was_ with the wolves,” the Canoness said, as if she had truly forgotten. “My apologies at ruining your fun, Inquisitor.”

“Let’s move, shall we?” Parsef said. “We don’t want to keep the Ravens waiting.”

“Give them more time to ‘find’ relics,” Croan said.

“And get the Blasphemer. I’m requiring his presence.”


	19. No More Miracles

_“One Blasphemer, comin’ right up,”_ Maeva said. She scanned the crowd one last time, but Geist was gone. Moving past the massive, muscle-bound servitors, she walked to Aevar’s chambers, and pounded on his door.

 _“Come on, wake up.”_ She pounded the door again. _“Thin’s ta do, yea?”_

Aevar wasn’t answering. She pounded on the door again and again, and with her cybernetic arm she was making a ruckus. But Aevar still wasn’t answering.

By the time the last servitor was moving the last suit of armor, she finally heard movement behind the door. Aevar played with the bolts, missing it a few times before finally pulling the door open.

“What?” He snapped. His speech was slurred; Maeva barely understood him, and he was speaking Juvik, too.

Ironclaws was a wreck. His clothes were dirty, like he’d been wearing them for a month straight. His hair and beard, normally well-kept, was just as filthy and ratty. Even the silver in his hair looked dirty. And the smell…

“Th’ fuck happen ta ya?” Maeva gasped. The shock made her revert to her mother tongue.

“Fuck, Maeva, what is it you want?” Aevar grunted. He reached behind him, knocking a plate over, and coming back with a massive jug.

“Are…are ya drunk?”

“Something like that,” he said, taking a pull.

“Shit, tha’s why it smells. An how th’ fuck ya get drunk?”

“Mjod,” he said. “You know it, right? It kills humans, it gets us drunk.”

“No, I mean how th’ fuck ya get yer hands on mjod? This ain’t Fenris.”

“Same way the guardsmen make their gutrot and Helfist makes his shit; brewed it right here.”

“Right here? With wha’? Don't ya need plants that only grow on Fenris?”

“Got them shipped in with the new group of Claws. Remember when they flew in? They brought barrels of stuff with them, and plants for mjod. Killed a few birds and rats while growing the plants, but what the fuck, right?” He took another swig.

“Fer fuck's sake, can ya knock tha’ shit off?”

“You telling me what to do?” He snapped. That got Maeva to take a step back. “Remember who you are, _mortal_.”

“Holy shit, wha's gottin' inta ya?” Aevar never got so conceited before. “Can ya please stop drinkin'?”

“And what gives you the authority to tell me what to do?” He growled, eyes narrowing.

“Considerin' we got a whole buncha Space Marines waitin' ta see ya, an' most of 'em would gladly cut yer thread in a heartbeat, I think I'm doin' ya a favor by getting' yer drunk ass up an' about!”

That got Aevar to blink.

“The Blood Ravens are here?”

“Damn straight they are! An' everyone wants ya ta hand th’ suits over, mostly Parsef! Think he'll like it if he sees how fucked up ya are?”

“Shit.”

“Get cleaned up! They're already bringin' th’ suits down!”

Aevar lethargically stumbled from the door, tossing the jar away. It hit the ground, somehow not shattering, and he lumbered off to a pile of clothes. He stumbled, only to fall to the ground.

“Holy shit, this is bad,” Maeva gasped. “We're gonna get blammed fer this, just lined up against th’ nearest wall, an’ fuckin’ _pow!_ ”

“Just give me some time,” he said, waving her away. “The organs and gene-seed and shit will fix this soon.”

“It ain't soon enough! Parsef is just itchin’ ta cut our threads. Just...try ta shape up, okay?” She said. “I'll be back.”

She ran from Aevar's room. The only ones left in the workshop were the servitors and Legato, who was overseeing them.

 _“Is Aevar coming soon?”_ He asked.

 _“Not right fuckin' now,”_ she hissed. It was an effort to switch back to High Gothic.

_“Something the matter?”_

_“Yea, we're up shit's creek an' we don't even have a paddle in sight.”_

_“What's wrong? Did Aevar find something he shouldn't have?”_

_“Look, just...”_ She was pulling her hair out. _“Tell anyone who comes in tha’ Aevar's in th' middle a somethin' big, an' he needs a second to get ta a good stoppin' point, yea?”_

_“Maeva, what in the Omnissiah’s name is going on?”_

_“I'm workin' on it! Where's Helfist?”_

_“I think he's with the other Space Wolves, probably waiting by the landing pad.”_

She was off and running before he could finish. If anyone saw Aevar drunk off his ass, there will be high Hel to pay. She ran through the monastery, until she nearly ran full-tilt into Helfist.

“Whoa there,” he said in Juvik. “What's going on? Old man Ironclaws having a hard time putting his work down?”

“If by work, ya mean mjod, then yea,” she snapped. It got Helfist to blink. “Need yer help with him. He'll piss off th’ wrong people an' get us all killed, th’ way we're goin'.”

“Head down to the landing pad,” Helfist ordered the Claws. The young Warriors groaned. “Yea, you heard me, no more 'fashionably late' for us. Get down there.”

“What if we get crap from that Ultra-smurf?”

“Tell him to blow it out his ass, that'll get him off our case,” Helfist said. He turned to Maeva. “Come on, let's go. And what's this business with mjod? I’ve brewed a few casks, but I never gave Aevar of them.”

“Tha's 'cus he made it himself,” she said, running down the stairs. Helfist kept an easy pace with her. “He's been growin' his own plants an' shit ta make it.”

“Guess that explains all the dead birds and rats we see around here,” Helfist said. “Dammit, greybeard, what's going on?”

 

* * *

 

Helfist and Maeva ran through the stone hallways until they made it back to the workshop. Legato was standing between Croan and Aevar's door.

“Please, just give him a minute,” the tiny man pleaded.

“There is no more time left,” Croan said. “We are needed outside, now.”

“Hold on, brother,” Helfist said, walking up to the door. He pounded on it with nearly all his might. “Aevar! Open up in there. Fuck it, we don’t have time for this. I'm coming in.”

Light pooled in his eyes as he summoned the spirits of Fenris. Vermund lashed out, easily punching through the thick wooden door and nearly tore it off its hinges.

“Dammit,” he said, crinkling his nose. “You even take a bath, old man?”

“What's the fucking point?” Aevar was sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed, opening another bottle of home-brewed mjod. “We'll all be dead soon, another fallen Chapter, another branded heretic. Just another sad footnote in history.”

“By the Emperor, what is this?” Croan cursed.

“Shit, Aevar, how many of these damn bottles you go through?”

“Don't know, broke a few,” he mumbled. Helfist snatched the bottle from his hand before he could take another pull.

“We need to be getting out there to give the suits away to the Blood Ravens,” he said. “Not sit around and drink.”

“Why not?”

“Because after we give them away, we need to make more suits, more relics, and then train the tech priests!”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” Aevar chuckled.

“You have deciphered a new relic?” Croan asked, voice full of hope and energy. “Found new ways to teach us?”

“Fuck no.”

“Ex...excuse you?”

“Can't make any new relics, just strange shit that looks old. Can't make heads or tails of shit, and I can’t teach that crap. Just an idiot child playing at being great.”

“But you've got hundreds a picts of scrolls,” Maeva said. “Can't ya make somethin' out?”

“Those pics are of shit that’s falling apart with age! All I can make is strange shit that only _looks_ like something old, and that’s by using more of the tech we _got_ than the tech we _lost_ ,” Aevar laughed. “Those suits were me flying by the seat of my pants. And holy fuck, wouldn't you know it, it worked! And I’m supposed to teach people this shit! I’m just throwing crap together and it just works out. I’m no better than the damned Mechanicus, just blindly stumbling about.”

“You are speaking nonsense,” Croan said. “I have seen you pour over those picts. You are touched by the Omnissiah; you can make new relics, or whatever you want to call them.”

“Hey, Maeva, remember what the Mechanicus wants me to do?”

“Yer suppose ta make relics ‘n teach us how ta make ‘em.”

“How many things have I taught you?”

“Wha’, ya mean followin’ yer instructions?”

“No, I mean to actually make something yourself, _without_ my help.”

Maeva traded looks with Legato and Croan. They all knew that Aevar did his own magick that somehow made the relics work. What they did was simple forging, grunt work leading to that all-important moment, or following his every instruction, doing no true thinking of their own.

“So when ya said I was figurin’ shit out,” she said slowly, “ya were blowin’ smoke up my ass?”

“Just trying not to look like a damned fool. I do something, it works, and I don’t know why. Sorry for lying to you.”

“You are blowing this out of proportion,” Croan said. “You made a new relic.”

“Oh, I can make shit by waving my hand. But the Mechanicus don’t like that,” Aevar said. “They want to _know_ how I make shit, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I close my eyes, smash shit together, and working crap comes out. I’m just a black box that does magic shit, like you said.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Maeva groaned. “If yer th’ only one who can make shit, where does that leave us?”

“With an itchy trigger finger Inquisitor,” he rumbled. “We don’t follow the rules to the letter, our ass is grass. Croan, you told me how far the Mechanicus stretched their neck out for me; how many favors did you say they had to call in just to keep me alive for five years?”

“Far too many,” the Salamander mumbled.

“Damned right. If I don’t dot my I’s and cross my T’s, the big bad Inquisition comes knocking.”

“But you have still created relics, technological wonders not seen since the Heresy,” Croan sputtered. “Does that not count for anything? Can you not appeal to their sense of urgency or need?”

“You want me to throw myself on the _mercy_ of the Inquisition?” Aevar roared. He knocked another earthen bottle over as he slapped his knee. “Even if I wasn’t a Space Wolf, what good you think that’ll do? You know what really did me in? Fucking Parsef called my bluff; he’s giving me more tech priests to teach, and I can’t teach anyone anything! That busts the deal. Ha, now _that_ takes me back out to the ice. ‘Bust a deal and face the wheel!’”

The room went quiet as everyone digested the news.

“So, we're dead men,” Helfist said. “And our Chapter will be branded a new traitor Legion.”

“I don’t mind dying,” Aevar mumbled. “As long as it’s for something important. But this? This crap is us dying for no damned good reason. And I’ll be the reason the Vlka will be forever remembered as filthy fucking traitors. Why did I even agree to this? Why the fuck did I open my damned mouth? Why, by the Emperor’s ass, did I even go on this fucking hunt for the truth?”

He reached into the ratty sheets and pulled out another half-empty bottle. He drank some, and offered it to Helfist, who downed the rest of it.

“So…so that’s it?” Legato asked. “This ends with us costing the Mechanicus far too many favors, for forcing them to go too far?”

“We’d be offering the Mechanicus no return for what they called in,” Aevar said. “And they won’t be able to protect us anymore. Not unless they decide to shut the entire Imperium down over little old me, but come on, _that_ won’t happen.”

“And then the Inquisition and your executioners get to kill us, and brand a First Founding Chapter traitors,” Croan said. “Emperor almighty.”

“Sorry about this, Helfist. I would've told you sooner, but ignorance is bliss, right?”

“Yea, guess it is,” the Vlka said. “Living on the run ain't much of a life.”

“What do we do now?” Croan asked. “Walk out, line up and tell Julas that he might as well shoot us now?”

That got Aevar and Helfist to react.

“Fuck that smurf!” Helfist snapped.

“Then we need to get out and greet the Blood Ravens,” the Salamander said. “How do we sober Aevar up?”

“There are two ways to get a drunk Vlka up and about,” Helfist said, “time, or an ice boat. We don’t have the time, so we use the next best thing.”

Vermund took a pouch off his belt and gave it to Maeva.

“Pull all that shit out on a table. Get up, greybeard. Gotta get the stink off you.”

Maeva took the pouch to a nearby table. Aevar lumbered up, while Helfist got a hose hooked up to a sink. He let lose, blasting Aevar with water.

“Fekke! You trying to drown me?” He sputtered.

“It’ll be better for your smelly ass,” Helfist said. He hosed Aevar dawn like he really was trying to drown him. Grumbling against the torrent of water, Aevar pulled off his soaking clothes. Maeva blushed, turning away as he grabbed for a towel.

“What is in the bag?” Croan asked.

“Some supplies an’ surprises from th’ priests, I think.” Maeva pulled out and sorted jars and vials. Powders, leaves and gels filled them all. “Wha’ am I lookin’ fer?”

“Hold on, I’m heading over.”

The water was shut off, and Helfist jogged over.

“Come on, where are you? A-hah!”

He put a few jars to the side, and pulled out a mortar and pestle. Filling it with powder and leaves, he began mashing it. Aevar stumbled from his chambers in drier clothes.

“Still got a smell to you,” Helfist said, not even bothering to look up, “but it should do. Come on, let’s get you going.”

“Make it a little heavy,” Aevar said, pulling up a chair.

“I’ve made it damn heavy. Come on, let’s get you on the ice boat.”

Spilling out the ground up powder onto the table, he took Aevar’s paring knife and started cutting it into lines.

“What in the Emperor’s name is that?” Croan said.

“Little bit of amphetamines, good amount of powdered adrenaline, with a _real_ big heaping of coke.”

“Th’ fekke?” Maeva cursed.

“What, you’ve never seen a Warrior get on an ice boat before?”

“Didn’t know ya needed it.”

“ _You_ haven’t had an exterminatus-sized mjod hangover before,” Helfist laughed. “Damn the gene-seed, sometimes Russ himself needs a good kick in the ass.”

Helfist finished making two lines out of the pure white dust. Each were longer than Maeva’s forearm, and were thicker than her thumb. Finally, Helfist pulled out a short straw.

“Come on, let’s get you going. Ice boat’s here.”

“’Bout damn time,” Aevar grumbled. He took the straw and lowered his head.

“I cannot watch this,” Croan said, turning around. He visibly cringed as Aevar snorted the first full line.

“Shit! Frost’s balls, what the crap is in this?”

“Too much coke?”

“No, just the right amount. Fekke, _that_ woke me up.”

Blinking back tears, Aevar went down and did the other line, powering through it.

“Dammit.” He wiped a few traces of powder from his nose, snorting what got away.

“Better?”

“Like a damned initiate again,” he said. “Right. We getting out there or what?”

“Brother…are you truly okay?” Croan asked.

“Stop turning your head like some coy maiden,” Aevar laughed. “First line took the edge off, the next one got me up.”

Aevar and Helfist led them out the door. Croan closed it, but the wolves were already walking onwards.

“I never want to see that again,” Legato mumbled as they made their way through the monastery.

“Yea, freaky shit, eh? Ya think we’re gonna get blammed?”

“Please, don’t,” Legato begged. “My heart can’t take this.”

They got to the front of the retreat, and Aevar and Helfist pushed the massive front doors open. Sisters of Battle stood at attention along the walkway that led down to the landing pad, overlooking the entire Hive City. Standing by them was the small team of Grey Knights.

“You are late,” one rumbled.

“Yea, yea,” Aevar said. “Hard at work. Can’t I get a break with that?”

“You were to hand off the armor upon the Raven’s landing,” the Knight said, crossly.

“Oh, so you know how to unravel the marvels of lost technology?” Aevar said. “Then please, tell me how to do my job.”

The Knights were, of course, wearing their armor. But Maeva could tell that they were glaring at him. Some of the Sisters by them cracked rare smiles; one chuckled. Not waiting for the Knights to give their pardon, Aevar sauntered down the stone path.

They got closer to the landing pad, where they saw a massive, red painted Thunderhawk. Maeva could see the suits of armor being loaded onto the ship by the servitors, and Parsef was talking to a massive Marine.

“…thank you for these priceless treasures,” the Blood Ravens Marine said. He was a stern man, with a serious face and close-cropped silver hair. A massive thunder hammer hung by his side.

“It was our greatest pleasure, Chapter Master Angelos,” Parsef said.

Standing by the Inquisitor was Canoness Lynia, the execution squad of marines with seemingly perpetually exhausted Julas at their head, and the rowdy pack of Blood Claws who were barely standing still.

“And this is the man to whom I owe my thanks?” Angelos asked, turning his head as he heard them approaching. Maeva’s heart pounded in her chest. Would Aevar be in his right mind?

“Yea, sorry about that,” Aevar said. “Got stuck in the middle of some serious work. Couldn’t just leave it be.”

“I’m sure an exception could’ve been made,” Parsef said.

“Hey, Croan, how do you ‘just leave’ a plasma reactor’s cooling mechanism unattended?” Aevar asked, lazily turning towards the Salamander.

“Is the chamber open?”

“Of course it’s open.”

“You cannot,” the Salamander said. “The machine-spirit cannot tolerate any external particles and debris, even if it is a single hair. If it is unsheathed, it is incredibly delicate. If it were contaminated, it must be thoroughly cleaned.”

“And how would we find out if it was contaminated?”

“By turning it on, and having it blow up in your face.”

“Hey, Helfist, do I have any spare faces?”

“Peace, brother,” Lynia laughed. “Your point has been made.”

“Quite,” Parsef fumed. “Any word of caution to the new users of these fine suits of armor?”

“You bet I do,” Aevar said, turning to Angelos. Maeva held her breathe. “Don’t ruin them.”

“Ha! I shall take those words to heart, brother!” Angelos laughed. “My endless thanks to your hard work and generosity.”

“You’re plenty welcome,” Aevar said, offering his hand. Angelos shook it. “Now get out there and give them a good coat of xenos and traitor blood.”

“With pleasure, brother,” Angelos said, bowing. He was escorted back into the Thunderhawk by the white-helmed sergeant, who remained eerily quiet. The ship was loaded, the ramp raised, and slowly, the ship flew away. Maeva’s heart was still hammering.

“Well, now that you have made a fool of us,” Parsef said, “will you be going back to your work?”

“Please, what good are we if we don’t do any work? Pretty sure you’d tell the Mechanicus that we’d turn to daemon worshipping if we slacked off.”

“At least we understand each other,” Parsef said.

“It seems that the Inquisitor is understanding the value of speaking frank,” Lynia smiled tightly.

“It is the only way to get the point through their thicker heads,” Parsef spat.

“And damn, do we have thick heads!” Aevar and Helfist laughed.

“Well, I do have good news for you.”

“Now _that_ sends shivers down the spine,” Helfist said.

“I can assure you that you would like this news,” Parsef sighed. “Your new group of tech priests are set to arrive within four standard months.”

“Can’t they take their sweet time?” Aevar laughed.

“You are needed to make relics for a dying age. Your current pace is unsuitable. Production needs to be ramped up—“

“Quotas need to be raised,” Aevar finished.

“Quite so,” Lynia agreed with a laugh.

“Ah-hem…Yes,” Parsef said tightly. “Do I need to remind you what will happen should you deviate even a little from the agreement?”

“Oh come on, I think we know each other better than that,” Aevar said. “But what are we going to do about space? That workshop can’t hold more than ten without getting real cramped.”

“Parsef has been talking to me, and we have found a new place of lodging,” Lynia said. “As you can tell, our monastery is built into this mountain. But only the southern half is being used; the northern half remains empty, an old retreat used for spiritual searches.

“We believe that, with some work, it that can easily be molded into a new workshop for you, even a true forge city. As we speak, servitors and small teams of Sisters have already begun clearing the old debris. We shall begin moving your work by the morrow.”

“Is there room to expand our operations?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind drilling through rock and mountain.”

“’Drilling through the mountain?’ Shit, sounds like the Aett. Maybe we can make that place a little more like home,” Helfist said.

“I like that idea,” Aevar said. “Now let me guess: we need to get ready by the time the new help arrives.”

“Right you are.”

“Figured, but didn’t want to assume,” Aevar grinned. “Thank you, Parsef.”

“You…are welcome.”

“What, not expecting a little Vlka gratitude?” 

“With your rough behaviors, can you blame me?”

“No, guess I can’t. Well, better get working at packing up.”

“I expect to see great results. Just remember that your fate, and the fate of your Chapter, are at stake.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar pushed the door to his lair open, and fell in the nearest chair. Croan closed the door and walked over.

“So, we have lived to die another day,” the Salamander rumbled.

“Aye, it appears so.”

“Alright, now what’s this business with the relics?” Helfist demanded.

“Just that: I’m an idiot savant,” Aevar said. “I wave my hands, shit suddenly works, and I got no idea how it happened. I can’t teach that, that’s just having good luck.”

“And a blessing of the Omnissiah,” Legato said.

“So what do we do?” Croan asked.

“Shit if I know,” Aevar mumbled. “Hope that the Mechanicus sticks their neck out for us even more? I got nothing.”

“Ya had ta pick yer lessons up somewhere,” Maeva said.

“Aye, I did. Well, some of them, anyways. Got some lessons from the Emperor’s Library, but I can’t make sense out of most of it. Nearly all of his shit is in shorthand.”

“Then can we go back? Maybe get some more books ‘n shit?”

“Fekke no. The High Lords of Terra hate my guts, and I’ll bet my left nut they won’t let anyone else anywhere near them.”

“This is what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you,” Croan said.

“Yea, yea, stop preaching, will you?” Helfist said. “This still leaves us and our Chapter up shit’s creek. We need to find some way of making sense of this.”

“Can we ask th’ Allfather?” Maeva asked. “I heard stories ‘bout people askin’ fer His help. Can’t we try?”

“We can only talk through the Emperor’s Tarot,” Legato said. “But even that is vague at best. Otherwise, He is beyond us.”

“Beyond us where?”

“In the great beyond, somewhere between life and death,” Croan said. “He watches us from there, seeing all but kept from talking.”

“Basically, he’s somewhere between reality and the warp,” Helfist said. “Can’t reach him.”

“That gives you an idea of how screwed we are,” Aevar chuckled darkly. “Damn, that ice boat is wearing off.”

“Need another one?”

“Na, think I’ll be fine. Just need some water to dodge a hangover.”

Helfist got up to fill a flagon at the wash station.

“Shit is gettin’ away from us,” Maeva said. “We need ta back up an’ start over. Wha’s th’ best way ta fix a problem? Ya make a solution.”

“And how would you propose that?” Croan ask.

“Can we make a machine ta talk ta th’ Allfather?”

“We have been trying that since the Heresy.”

“How?”

“Psykers, Librarians and Rune Priests have gathered, pooled their power to try and break through to the place the Allfather lies,” Helfist said. “We’ve been trying that for centuries, and it got us nowhere.”

“Mechanicus ain’t done any better,” Aevar said. “They made machines that try reach out to the plane of existence where the Emperor’s psykic might lays. Machines that interface with his brain, machines that run on sacrificed psykers, all sort of shit. Nothing works. And after nearly ten millennia, we’ve tried pretty much everything. Trust me, that was a favorite pet project back on Mars, finding a machine to talk to the Emperor.”

“Gotta be a way,” she mumbled. “Legato, can ya whip up some gene-thing?”

“They are genes, not magick!”

“Come on, there’s gotta be a way ta look at th’ Allfather.”

“Not unless you like getting burned,” Helfist said. “Croan? You want to volunteer?”

“Do not look at me,” Croan said. “We like fire, but we like living more.”

“Damn. There goes _that_ idea,” Aevar grumbled.

An idea filled Maeva’s head. It was so simple, but at the same time, it blinded her with power, with purity.

* * *

 

  _She was on the ice of Fenris, watching Aevar battle Logan Grimnar. He wore his prototype Cataphractii-pattern armor, the big, blocky armor moving strangely fast. Grimnar’s axe rose and fell, only to be pushed back by the shimmering blue refractor shield of the Catapharctii armor. Aevar swung back, defiant as any Vlka should be, surrounded by a strange glow._

_The cold bit into her, chilling her to the core; but it was a distant, far away feeling. Snow was melting, ice cold water was seeping its way into her boots, but she easily ignored it. Her eyes were drying, but she couldn’t make herself blink. She was blinded, blinded by the Allfather, by the blessing she saw in the armor._

_She knew her purpose, she knew what she was to do. She_ had _to work with the Ironclaws, work on that miraculous machine that the he built, damn any consequences._

_She had to help him save the Imperium._

* * *

 

Maeva blinked. Suddenly, she was back in the workshop, on Dimmimar. But she knew her purpose. Was this how Aevar felt? To be guided, to be blessed?

It didn’t matter. The answer filled her with light, gave her guidance.

“Why not make a new Allfather?”

Croan and Helfist glared at her with unbridled hate, and Legato gaped. Then Helfist blinked. He shielded his eyes with his hand, as if she was suddenly as bright as the sun itself.

“Watch yourself, mortal,” Croan yelled. “You dare blaspheme? You dare commit the ultimate sin?!”

“The only one who ever tried that batshit crazy idea was Fabius Bile,” Helfist added, hand still raised. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, as if she was still radiating light. “You know of him? Sickest of the sickest traitor marines! Creator of endless biological horrors from the warp! And you want to follow his footsteps?!”

“Eh, why the fuck not?” Aevar shrugged. Legato nearly fell out of his chair.

“You…you…”

“Dammit, greybeard, that ice boat must be doing some crazy stuff to you,” Helfist said, still glaring in Maeva’s general direction. “That’s blasphemy.”

“Good thing I’m the Blasphemer, then.”

“This goes beyond blasphemy!” Croan said. “We must not speak of this again.”

“Why not? It’s not like we got anything else that can save our Chapter, or the Imperium for that matter.”

“Aevar! You dare tread in the paths of Chaos?”

“Hey, Helfist, you sense any Chaos?”

Helfist growled at him, hair standing on edge.

“No,” he tightly said. He still had a hand raised, as if Maeva was still as bright as the sun. “Only the Allfather’s radiance, and a dull glow.”

“Thought so. Look at it this way: we’re dead men already, the destroyers of the Vlka Fenryka. Might as well try to do something worthwhile before the Inquisition kills us all.”

“So we clone the Allfather,” Helfist said. “And how would you propose we do that, seeing as the greatest, sickest mind in the galaxy couldn’t pull it off? A man who was alive before the Heresy and knows more about the gene-seed than probably anyone else?”

“This is not the time to even suggest something of this magnitude,” Croan said.

“Then when will be the time?” Aevar asked. “When the Emperor passes from this galaxy? Think we all know what’ll happen then.”

“Uh, ignorant death worlder here,” Maeva said. “Wha’ll happen?”

“Well, for starters, we couldn’t travel the warp,” Aevar said. “The Emperor acts like the north star in the warp. Can’t navigate without a north star, can you?”

“Then daemons will be able to manifest themselves wherever they want,” Helfist said. “Warp storms would tear apart everything, starting with Holy Terra.”

“It would be the end of humanity,” Legato said.

“So, if we make a new Allfather, wouldn’t we be savin’ it?”

“It is heresy!” Croan roared.

“Been there, done that, got certified as clean,” Aevar said. “I still say why the fuck not. I’m a dead man, with a Chapter that’ll soon be branded heretics. Might as well try this before our time runs out. Besides, we know what’s happening to the Throne.”

Everyone went silent as they stared at him.

“The Throne?” Helfist asked. “What about the Throne?”

“We are forbidden to speak of it,” Legato said. “We swore an oath to the Mechanicus.”

“We _uphold_ our oaths,” Croan said, glaring at Aevar.

“Oh, get over it. We’ve broken how many rules just to make the armor and blades?” He groaned. “Besides, if it works, we’ve just saved the Imperium. We might as well bring everyone up to speed: the Throne is failing.”

“What?” Helfist yelled.

“That’s why we were brought to Terra,” Aevar continued. “We tried to fix it, but even I couldn’t do that. So why not try and clone the Emperor? If we clone him, maybe we can fix the Throne, or maybe we won’t need to fix the Throne. And we’ll be saving our Chapter; we’re the deliverers of the Imperium. No one could question our loyalty then.”

“I _must_ be going mad,” Helfist mumbled. “This sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in a while.”

“But how would we do it?” Legato asked.

“Now I’m kinda handy with gene-seed stuff, and I don’t like passing things off, but you’re the best genetor in the whole damn Imperium. That’s why you were picked to go to Terra, right Legato?”

Legato looked like he would die.

“W-w-w-w-w-we would need a gene sample,” he said. “But we have no pure gene-samples from the Emperor.”

“Good. Let us never speak of this again,” Croan rumbled.

“Now hold on there,” Aevar said. “We’ve got Marines from every First Founding Chapter, don’t we? We can use those sample.”

“And they would simply give up the very fabric of their Chapters?” Croan laughed. “We might as well ask a mortal man to castrate himself and hand us his testicles.”

“Gene-seed is gathered in the Progenoid Glands,” Aevar said, pointing to his neck, “and if we harvest it right, they can grow back. Hel, that’s how the Mechanicus tracks our gene-seed and checks it for mutations and what-not for the Tithe. They do that shit every damn year, and they don’t kill anyone in the process.”

“Are you saying that you’ve taken gene-seed samples for the Mechanicus before?” Legato asked.

“Yup. Done it before when our flesh-mender Ljot Soothsayer was in his dreadnaught armor and I had to heal the injured. He walked me through the process.”

“What you are suggesting is insanity,” Croan said. “Even if they agreed to, every Marine gene-seed is flawed, even the vaulted gene-seed of the Ultramarines.”

“But each gene-seed is a derivative of the Emperor’s, right?” Aevar asked. “You remember the stories as well as we do: the Emperor took his own gene-seed and fashioned the Primarchs from it. And from the Primarch’s gene-seed, he created us Space Marines. So, if he broke his gene-seed down to create us, can’t we take ours and put it all back together to get his?”

All eyes fell to Legato.

“Well, uh, in theory, I guess…but if it is so precious…”

“It _is_ precious!” Croan roared. “It is the very lifeblood of the Chapter, it is what makes us brothers, connects us to our Primarchs, to the Emperor, even! How would we get it?”

“Through the power of bullshit,” Aevar grinned.

“You are not serious!”

“I tell everyone I think I found a way to fight corruption, a prototype from the Emperor’s Library, but I need gene-seed to test the effectiveness,” he said. “I get every one of the execution team to donate, and there we go.”

“Why are we even entertaining such an idea?” Croan demanded.

“Because I can’ do this shit myself,” he said. “You remember when the Grey Knight read me my tarot? What did it say? Come on, you remember, don’t you?”

“How could I forget?” Croan said. “‘Hope, from a discovery, will lead to a champion.’”

“Damn right it did,” he said. “For the longest time, I thought _I_ was that champion. I thought that discovery was the Imperial Truth, freeing me from the Mechanicus’ ways to make new relics, and the hope was my hope to keep this damn Imperium spinning.

“But guess what: I’m not hot shit. Sure, compared to the Mechanicus I’m on fire, but I’m an idiot child making random things and shocking everyone, even myself, when it all works. The Truth was not my discovery, and I’m not that champion. This, cloning the Emperor, is our discovery, and dammit, I say we need to bring this champion to life.”

“Fine,” Croan said, his voice choked with so much anger it made him nearly impossible to understand. “Let us entertain this idea for yet another step: we might have the gene-seed, but we do not know how to put it all together. Without knowing what the Emperor’s gene-seed looks like, we cannot do _anything_.”

The room went quiet, then Legato choked. Everyone turned to him. Tears were silently streaming down his face.

“I’ve seen it,” he gasped. “I’ve seen the Emperor’s gene-seed, when we were working on the Throne. By the Omnissiah, I’ve seen it. I didn’t want to, but they made me.”

“But you cannot recall the structure, surely!”

“I remember everything,” Legato said. “I’ll never be able to forget it. It’s been haunting me, taunting me with its perfection. Oh, holy Throne, I can still see it in front of my eyes as we speak…”

“There we go,” Aevar said. “We get the gene-seed, and we got the best damn genetor in the entire Imperium to put it together from memory. How does that sound? _Blasphemous_ enough for you?”

Croan glared at him.

“Please, Croan,” Helfist said. “Don’t do this to save our lives, do this to save our Chapter. I’m begging you.”

The Salamander sighed.

“By requesting to be here, I am already destined to burn. We have crossed many lines to get here; what would I care if the flames are a little brighter?”

“Yea, we’re all dead men walking,” Helfist added. “Shit, we’re a dead _Chapter_ walking. If we even have a _chance_ to bring the Allfather back…that would be worth it, wouldn’t it?”

There was a knock at the door, and everyone went quiet.

“Fuck, we’re acting like a bunch of fresh-off-the-ice young bloods,” Aevar laughed, getting to his feet.

“My apologies, but talking of heretical actions tends to _terrify_ me,” Croan said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Aevar said, pulling the door open.

“You don’t call, you don’t write, it’s almost as if you don’t care,” Canoness Lynia said. She wore simple robes.

“Coming alone to the den of wolves? Unarmed and unarmored. Aren’t you afraid of…oh, what were your words…? Afraid of being ‘viciously assaulted?’”

“Wolves are fierce creatures, but I have faith that their friendship and loyalty are strong enough to overcome their baser desires,” Lynia smiled.

“Ha! You sure know us!” Aevar roared. “How can I help?”

“A few things. First, Parsef wants your move to your new quarters to be fast, and that usually means my Sisters won’t be very gentle with boxes. Also, while this new layer of yours will be uniquely yours, I still expect to have a few talks with you.”

“Yea, us old folk have to stick together, eh?”

“This companionship is strange, but welcome,” she smiled. “Us kindred spirits have seen much.”

“More so for me. You weren’t around for the first war of Armageddon.”

“There was a First War for Armageddon?” Lynia asked, a demure smile tugging at her scars.

“Oh, get off it, you old bat,” Aevar laughed. “You’re on the Inquisition’s good side; they should’ve told you about all the wars on that place.”

“Have I ever mentioned how I love your perceptiveness and lack of grace?”

“Only a few times. Gonna surprise me and tell me your real age?”

“I have seen many wars. You may be surprised.”

“Oh, so you’ve had a few regenerative surgeries, have you?”

“It is bad manners to ask a woman such a thing,” Lynia said, smiling her tight, barely-there smile.

“Good thing we don’t have good manners, then,” Aevar roared.

“Quite. I cannot speak for others, but I personally find it refreshing.”

“Excellent! I’ll make sure to swing by.”

“You do an old woman a great favor,” Lynia said. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Anything for you.”

“A few Sisters who have been gifted with carrying sacred relics to the Order have reported their relics as missing. You can imagine the stress and panic this is causing them.”

“Oh dear. When did this happen?”

“They say that the relics were in their resting places, or on their persons, when the Blood Ravens landed,” Lynia said. “If you have the time, we would greatly appreciate your help in a search to find them.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“My thanks,” Lynia said, bowing her head. “Now get to packing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Aevar closed the door, only to see Helfist, Maeva and Legato reaching for their pockets. “What?”

“Didn’t think th’ fucking Ravens would take a five-finger discount while they were here,” Maeva grumbled as she pulled out a handful of Imperial credits.

“Such is your loss,” Croan grinned, taking their money. “Next time, bolt down _everything_.”

“Seriously, who th’ fuck goes about stealin’ other people’s relics, yea?”

 

* * *

 

The mountain retreat had a cavernous main hall. It was almost as big as the main forge back at the Aett. The ceiling was easily a hundred meters tall, with stalactites occasionally dripping water.  The damn thing had to be nearly two hundred meters long and wide, too. All in all, a good place to start a forge. Maybe they could drill into the planet’s core; that would really help heat the place up.

Sisters were flooding the cavern, bringing load-carrying servitors with them. Each carried a massive haul of their packed items. Soon, this place would be like home. It also meant that Aevar would have to go through the trouble of finding all the bugs that Parsef would have undoubtedly been hiding all over the place.

“You got a minute, greybeard?” Helfist asked. Aevar heard him walking up; it didn’t make him flinch.

“Got a few minutes. What’s on your mind?”

“Wanted to talk to you about Maeva,” the Rune Priest said.

“Our dear mortal? What’s got you worried about little old her?”

“Not worried, just…unsettled.”

Aevar looked at his friend. Helfist kept himself composed, but he was tense, edgy. Aevar could smell the discomfort on him, and he could almost swear that he could hear his secondary heart pumping.

“What’s Mavea done to get you so twisted up?”

“Nothing,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “Nothing she’d have control over. Well, it’s you, too. Yesterday, when we were talking about…‘that.’ I saw a light.”

“A light?”

“Aye, a light. Something only a druid would see, and it seemed to come from you and Maeva. It started with her, just when she started talking about ‘that.’ Then when you got on board, it only grew. It was like looking at the Allfather; it was like He was acting through her.”

“Just like my wyrd said, back when we cast the bones when those traders left the Aett.”

“Yea, just like it.”

“Probably explains why you went along with us without bitching and moaning like Croan was.”

“More or less.”

“So the Emperor is acting with us. We’re on the right path.”

“But it wasn’t _just_ that. There was the glow of the Allfather, then there was something else from you, a different glow, a second one.”

“And that being?”

“I…I really don’t know,” Helfist admitted. “Ever since I’ve met you, when I was pulled from the ice and brought to the Aett, there’s been some kinda other glow about you. Dammit, it’s hard to explain to someone who can’t talk with spirits.

“Everyone’s got a glow. That’s their soul, and everyone’s got a soul except for those who don’t. Yours was…I guess it’s always been different, but I always thought it was different, like the Allfather had made your wyrd…well, weird. And I never questioned it.”

“There’s that wyrd again,” Aevar dryly chuckled. “Always saving my worthless hide.”

“That’s what everyone thought, even Stormcaller. And when you made that first suit of armor, it only became…stranger, I guess. I knew the Allfather was working through you; I saw you glow with His radiance. I even thought he was making you spill those vile blasphemies.”

“Was he?”

“Hel if I know, he might’ve only had his eye out for you. I can’t talk to the man, dammit; no one can. I only know that his glow was about you. That and some other kind of glow.”

“And this ‘two soul glow,’ that’s the glow that Maeva said drew her to us?”

“It looks like it. No clue how, but we’re here now, aren’t we? Maybe the Allfather looked at her and liked what he saw. But, but even then, there was that… _other_ , second glow about you. It was slight, nothing compared to the Allfather, but it was there. And it’s here now.”

“Think it could be my wyrd, and not just the Emperor looking out for me?”

“That’d be some damn strange wyrd. Far as I know, shit, as far as _anyone_ knows, the Allfather spins all our wyrd. But this other glow…it’s like you got two wyrds, and you just don’t get _two_ wyrds. It’s got me real freaked.”

“I can tell. Your hair is almost standing on end.”

“Yea, feels that way,” Helfist said. “Damn. It just seemed so normal all those decades. Whole packs of Claws must’ve seen your strange glow and thought it normal.”

“But it ain’t, is it?”

“It ain’t bad, I can tell you that. It’s not like you got some curse tagged on you, or some fucked-up ‘blessing’ from the dark gods.”

“Yea, I ain’t some pus-soaked, frothing at the mouth sexy psyker. That’d be a dead giveaway.”

“Tell you the truth, I’d actually prefer if you sprouted feathers or burst into a daemon. At least that’ll get rid of that strange glow.”

“Do I get a say in the matter?”

“No.”

“So good to know you care.”

 

* * *

 

Julas walked into the Blasphemer’s new layer, bringing up the rear of the Marine execution force. At the rear, he could rub his eyes, trying to chase the dryness from them. The Nightmare was getting worse, and was even starting to invade his waking moments, as well as what scant sleep he could get.

He though the wolves were exaggerating the size of the new hold; they were exaggerating everything, from their kills to the size of their manhood. But he had to admit, the wolves were right about this. One could easily fit an entire Battle Demi-Company inside the massive chamber with room to spare.

Croan of the Salamanders met them, wearing his black carapace and servo-arms, and the tiny, mouse-like tech priest Legato. Behind them was the Blasphemer himself, wearing the rough-spun clothes of his Chapter, his servo-arm namesakes at his back.

“Thank you for coming, brothers,” Croan said, a gentle smile on his face. “I know we draw you from your duties, and we thank you for your time. We have found, among the picts that Brother Ironclaws has taken of the Emperor’s Library, the outline of a project the Emperor began working on just before the Heresy broke out. If we can complete it, we stand a chance of improving the way we traverse the warp.”

“What work is this?” Julas asked.

“Far as we can figure, it’d help cut down on daemon possession attempts,” the Blasphemer said. “And he would’ve figured it out if that bitch Horus didn’t decide to turn his cloak, too. Thing is, we’d need your gene-seed to test it.”

They all stared death at the Blasphemer. To even _think_ about taking their gene-seed, the fabric of the Space Marines, their genetic legacy…

“You think you can succeed where the Emperor failed?”

“Not really, but it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” The rabid dog shrugged. “Not so sure about the rest of you, but I fucking _hate_ warp travel. Hate, hate, _hate_ it. So if there’s a way to make it at least a little bit more tolerable, I think it’s worth looking into.”

“And you need our gene-seed to do it,” Julas said. “You plan to give us the Emperor’s Peace, Blasphemer?”

“What the shit are you talking about? I just need a small sample, nothing more than the Tithe the Mechanicus takes,” he said. “The Emperor was looking into ways to improve Astropath’s navigation abilities, and he was using his own gene-seed to test it. Seeing as we don’t have the Emperor’s gene-seed, or at least a Primarch’s, we’re the next best thing.”

The group of Marines stared at him, each unmoving, unwilling to give up what was their blood right. The Blasphemer stood patiently.

“Don’t all rush up at once,” he chuckled.

“This is your new project?” Julas asked.

“No, this is something to keep us busy until the ship full of tech priests gets here,” he said. “If we end up making good headway, then it’ll become a true project. But I’m not holding my breath; if the Emperor couldn’t do it…well, let’s say we got our work cut out for us.”

It was a pipe dream, wishful thinking at very best. But then again, the Nightmare that plagued him in the warp and beyond were biting at Julas’ heels. Wouldn’t it be worth it to be done with such foul things?

                       

* * *

 

_Julas stood on a field of death. Corpses were everywhere, mostly human. Dead bodies were falling from the heavens, and it was raining blood. There was no ground; he stood atop the dead that littered the plain. From one end of the horizon to the other, there was only death._

_Faces looked up at him with glazed eyes. He saw Tullus and Potitus, brothers who fell decades ago. In another pile was Appius, and Caius was torn into three pieces, melting from the stomach juices of some foul Tyranid beast._

_“Brothers, please,” he cried. “Forgive me. We had to do this. I had to do this.”_

_ “You  _ had _to.”_ _Julas never knew who was speaking, or where the voice came from, but he could hear the sarcasm dripping from it. “You think you are a hero; you are _ disposable _. You are a puppet that fat, old men tug about. You dance to their tune, told when and where and how to die. You are simply a plastic piece on a board, to be move, used and thrown away._

_ “But this is not your fate. You can free yourself from the rules of Man. You can find true freedom, where your sacrifices are always worthy. You will never be forgotten. All you have to do is let us in.” _

_Knee-deep in the dead, Julas prayed to the Emperor._

_ “Let us in!” _

 

* * *

 

Julas realized that he had taken a step forward. He could feel the gaze of the Marines upon him, and the Blasphemer gave him a puzzling look.

“Well, fuck me sideways and call me Sally. Never thought I’d see you stepping up first.”

“I…hate warp travel,” Julas said, trying to keep himself from leaking any emotion. “Gives me bad dreams.”

“Not to worry, we get a lot of restless nights in our Chapter. We understand.”

There was actual sympathy in his voice. Julas couldn’t think of anything to say; he ended up grunting.

“Legato can take a sample,” the wolf said, nodding towards the mortal man. “We got a little tent set up back there, if you would like.”

“Where are you taking the sample from?”

“From the neck.”

“And is he skilled enough to extract it without causing any damage?”

The Blasphemer’s response was to pull down the collar of his shirt. There was a simple gauze pad taped to his chest, with a single point of blood standing out.

“He pulled my sample just as you were arriving.”

“Thank you. That truly makes me feel marginally better.”

“Not a problem, brother.”

Julas glared at him again, then walked off to the small priest.

“T-thank you for volunteering,” the man said.

“Let us move on with this,” Julas said. “Before my better senses talk me out of this.”

“Of course.”

The tech priest walked deeper into the cavern. Ten meters ahead of them was a small tent, rigged for privacy. Julas pulled open the flap. Inside was a table, a chilled case where the sample would undoubtedly go, and a ladder for the priest.

_Blood of Ultramar, what am I getting into?_

“Would you like something for the pain? Some local anesthesia?”

“Yes, please.” The tech priest sprayed something on Julas’ chest. A tingling ran over his skin. He had to look down to see the tech priest cut into his flesh. He worked with surgical precision. “You are quite skilled with a scalpel.”

“I am most renowned for my work as a genetor,” the thin man said. “And I’d like to believe I’m one of the best. It requires careful work, and steady hands. This might feel a little uncomfortable.”

“Have you given my words any more thought?” Julas asked. “We must guard ourselves, until we know who can be counted on as a brother.”

“I have given your words thought, and I’m not moved by them.” The servo-arm pulled itself out of his chest. A small vial was attached to the thin piece of metal, and a liquid filled it. Julas’ hearts pounded in his chest. It was the glory of his Chapter, used for whatever the damned Blasphemer wanted.

But if it could make the Nightmare go away, wasn’t that worth it? No more regrets, no more memories of his brother, falling to dark powers, his name burned from every record to hide their collective shame. Of seeing his flesh be torn asunder, of his laughter…

“I see,” Julas said. “I hope that you know what you are doing, tech priest. For you gamble with powers beyond your comprehension.”

“And you see threats where none exist.”

“There are threats all around us,” he snapped. “We live in an age defined by war. Constant, grinding, never ending war. To refute it is to admit your ignorance. Our only option is to remain vigil, to stand guard and prepare for whatever tests our mettle next.”

The tech priest placed the gene-seed filled vial into the cooled case. There was a small rack holding two vials, each sitting, each chilled. He added his sample to the rest. While he secured them, his servo-arms closed the wound.

“No need to waste any gauze on me,” Julas said.

“Very well,” the tech priest said. “Thank you for your…donation.”

“Honor my sacrifice,” Julas said. “Do your best to find a better way to traverse the stars. I grow sick and tired of the warp and its damned pull.”

“W-we shall do our best.”

“Good.” Julas walked from the tent. He had to return to his duties.

Outside the tent, a few meters from the entrance, were the rest of the marines in their execution group.

“Everyone is volunteering?” Julas asked.

“If an Ultramarine sees the need for such a donation, it must be for a good, noble cause,” said Bortei, the White Scar.

“I shall hope that the cause is indeed noble,” Julas said.

“Then why did you donate?”

Julas held his tongue. An Ultramarine must be above selfish desires. But if they could even lessen the Nightmare…

“We live in difficult times, brother,” he finally said. “When you are done, we must return to our duties. I want to examine the Blasphemer’s new residence, from top to bottom. If he wants to hide anything from us, I want to know where he would hide it.”


	20. A Simple Plan

Legato had worked on the Golden Throne, had seen the Emperor sitting upon it in eternal vigil, and has beheld secrets that threatened to crack his mind in two. But seeing the gene-seed of every remaining loyalist first founding chapter of Space Marines…it was something that he never could have believed to be a part of. The vials sat in a rack, dipped in a simple cold bath to prevent it from spoiling. The bath was sitting in the small tent they drew the samples from. With Aevar, Croan and Helfist standing with them, there wasn’t much room in the tent.

“Well, that went easier than expected,” Aevar mumbled.

“I’d tell ya ta shut up if I didn’t think so myself,” Maeva said. “Ya don’t go testin’ yer wyrd.”

“The crazy mortal whore has a point,” Helfist nodded.

“What is the next step?” Croan asked.

“Well, first things first, we gotta make sure we don’t have anyone with roving eyes checking our work out,” Aevar said. “I’ll set up some simple privacy screens and counter-bugs. Maeva, you run interference.”

“Aevar, she’s just a woman,” Legato protested.

“A woman who’s got the attention of an assassin.”

“I’d say more ‘n just her attention,” Maeva grinned. 

“You keep her as busy as you can. And tell us if she thinks she might have some suspicion about us. Hel, feed her a few things that aren’t secret; that should keep Parsef happy. Croan, you, Helfist and Maeva will be working on getting the workshop set up. That’ll leave Legato and me to do some tinkering. How long until our new help arrives?”

“They say within a few months,” the Salamander said. “Four, at the most.”

“Doesn’t give us a lot of time to be messing around with the gene-seed,” Aevar mumbled. “Well, better start working. Everyone knows what to do.”

“Let’s get this workshop up and running,” Helfist grinned. “Maeva, you got any ideas on where things should go?”

“’Do I have any ideas?’” She said. “This is gonna be a fuckin’ great workshop, yea? Assumin’ we get ta live ta really use it, an’ not be blammed as traitors, eh?”

“Go crazy, I’m sure Lynia and Parsef would give you what you want,” Aevar said.

“Th’ goose tha’ laid th’ golden eggs is back?”

“With a vengeance,” Aevar snorted. “If we get this right, we’ll probably save the Vlka.”

“I think I shall carry my flamer with me,” Croan mumbled.

“Worried about a little daemon incursion?” Helfist grinned.

“A little preparation never hurt anyone,” Aevar said. “Better bring Katla and Iounn with me. The poor girls have been getting pretty lonely.”

“Katla? Iounn? Ya brought some ladies with ya an’ ya didn’t tel me?”

“My two true loves,” Aevar sighed dramatically. “They’re my thunder hammer and bolt pistol. Two of the first things I ever made. Now let’s get to work.”

Helfist, Croan and Legato left the small tent, leaving Legato with Aevar.

“Do you really think this will work?” Legato asked, still staring at the vials of gene-seed.

“Fekke no, but I didn’t think I’d actually make Cataphractii armor,” Aevar said. “You know how the Emperor’s gene-seed goes together; hopefully we have enough raw materials to put it together. Shit, you even think we have _enough_ gene-seed and shit to actually go through with this?”

“Hopefully,” Legato said. “I first started my work as a genetor working the annual Tithe; I’ve become quite good at it. And while each Chapter’s gene-seed is different, there’s usually enough common material to keep them linked. Certain sequences are repeated, and often directly match with different Chapters. Even Space Marine gene-seed has numerous similarities to the Emperor’s holy helix.”

“Ah, so there’s only so many times you can re-invent the wheel before shit gets stale.”

“That’s a crude metaphor, but it’s not entirely wrong.”

“Huh. Guess we actually have a snowball’s chance in Hel to pull this shit off.”

“A snowball doesn’t have a chance in hell.”

“Sure, it does!” Aevar laughed. “Just not a very good one. Now let’s get cracking. And if we don’t pull this off…well, it was nice knowing you Legato.”

“And it was an honor to know you, too. Even if I didn’t hear you truly curse up a storm.” Legato sighed. “We have small samples; we’ll need more than this. We can get the samples to multiply in a simple solution; that should provide all the material we need, as long as we make sure they replicated properly.”

Aevar went to their bundle of supplies, and Legato fell into the familiar rhythm of creating solution baths. He hadn’t done such work since he was last on Mars, running the Tithe for various Chapters. Power connections were run, baths created, and warmers set up. He went to the samples and carefully, reverently, pulled one out.

“Careful, that’s my sample you got there,” Aevar said.

“I-I’m always careful!”

“Lighten up, I’m giving you a hard time,” the Space Wolf grinned.

“Please, this is…this is hard for me.”

“You’re right. Sorry, tend to get a little mouthy when I’m committing blasphemies. If it helps, it doesn’t get easier from this point on.”

“That actually does makes me feel better.”

Legato took the vial, and with a servo arm, drew a small portion of it. Nearly half the pipette he used was filled. He went to the bath, and double checked the nutrient levels and temperature.

“Holy Omnissiah, please guard my will and strengthen my convictions,” he prayed. “Protect me from falling down the dark path.”

He injected the sample into the bath.

“Feeling better?”

“No, still trying to sort out my faith.”

“Don’t worry, I’m worse in that regard than you.”

“Why is that?”

“You don’t want to know,” Aevar said. He spoke with finality, and Legato didn’t want to press the issue. He dialed a voltage regulator, sending electric current through the bath.

“Now we wait, and see if the sample replicates properly.”

“Good.”

The gene-seed was blue-ish in color, and easily faded into the liquid bath. But Legato could swear that he saw it multiplying, even though he knew it was impossible. He wanted to believe that the path they were embarking on was the correct one. But something deep inside of him stopped him from believing. Trust would have to do for now.

 

* * *

 

“Why are we outside?”

“Gettin’ too cramped up in there, ya know? Gotta get out an’ feel the wind on th’ face.”

“This one does not understand the appeal of ‘roughing it.’”

“Hel’s Teeth, Geist, we’re trying ta have fun here.”

Maeva was supposed to be distracting Geist from Aevar’s work, but she just wanted the assassin to herself for a day or so. So why not get both done at the same time?

“This one is running the risk of neglecting her duties for the sake of this trip. Work is our sacred duty.”

“Yer a beautiful indoctrinated soldier, ya know tha’?”

Geist sighed, the assumed face of a Sister of Battle contorting as she looked at the small woods that Maeva insisted on camping in.

“This one apologizes. She did not mean to insinuate that this trip was pointless or a waste of time,” she said. “Her training, her conditioning, was not meant to be overcome. The silence, the peace, the…the _lethargy_ does not sit well with her.”

“Well, I know a few thin’s we can do. Yer Death Korp got a real thin’ fer diggin’ holes, yea? We could make some trenches an’ breastworks an’ th’ like.”

“Truly?” Geist’s assumed eyes lit up.

“Ready ta set up th’ battlements, ma’am,” Maeva said, saluting. “Order me around. Frost is th’ word.”

“On your feet, soldier,” Geist immediately snarled. “Get up! We need these battlements in order. Move!”

Maeva got to her feet, only to have Geist push a shovel in her hands. In the blink of an eye, the assassin transformed into a Death Korp officer. Her Sister of Battle robes had changed into a flowing great coat, complete with hat and gas mask. Geist pulled out another shovel from her pack, and roughly grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Move. Over here. No, here. What is wrong with you, soldier? Now dig.”

The change was so fast and sudden, Maeva was completely taken aback. Pushed around, she could only obey. She sunk the blade of the shovel into the earth, and began turning the soil up.

“Dirt goes ahead of you, soldier! Do I have to spell it out to you?” Geist snapped. “Better. Maybe there is a chance in Hell for you to survive the night. Pray to the Emperor, and maybe you’ll see the morning!”

Damn, digging was hard work. How could Geist and the Death Korp do it all the live long day? If it wasn’t for her cybernetic arm, Maeva was sure that her other hand would be covered with blisters. Slowly, the trench began taking shape.

“More dirt up on that ridge! You call that a trench? Keep moving, the Emperor didn’t give us all day, soldier.”

It didn’t take long for Maeva to be gasping for breath and sweating heavily. But damn Geist looked like she could do this forever.

“Getting soft sitting inside that shop with the Blasphemer?” She demanded. “What are you working on in there?”

“Findin’ lost tech,” Maeva gasped.

“Course you are,” Geist snapped. “What _else_ you working on in there? Finding more ways to subvert the Emperor’s will?”

“N-no ma’am.” Dammit, she had to keep her mouth shut. Couldn’t be talking about ‘that.’

“Don’t you lie to me, soldier. I am an instrument of the Emperor’s will; lie to me, and you lie to the Emperor. Are you lying?”

“No!”

“Dig more! We need this trench to be bigger!”

The day dragged on, with dirt getting places Maeva never thought it’d get to.

“Rest.”

The order couldn’t come sooner. Maeva collapsed into the trench, gasping for breath. Geist stood over her, looking at their work.

“Not bad,” she said, “for a shit hole. We might make a soldier of you yet.”

“Frost.” She was barely able to get the safe word out. “Fuckin’ frost.”

“Are you okay?” Geist asked, jumping into the trench. The hard edge to her voice was gone. “This one simply instructed you on the proper way to dig a trench.”

“’Simple,’ she says…!”

“Was this one too hard on you?”

“Geist, ya came at me like a fuckin’ daemon, howlin’ an’ yellin’ and cussin’. Ya scared th’ ever lovin’ shit outta me.”

“This one didn’t—“

“I loved it,” she grinned.

“Oh! This one is glad.”

“Come down here an’ do it again.”

 

* * *

 

“Ave Imperator.”

The Sisters rose from their prayer and began serving food. Aevar rubbed his eyes and reached for a flagon of Helfist’s mead. He was seeing damn genomes when he closed his eyes, and needed something to help him relax. If he kept this level of work up, Julas wouldn’t be the only one with bags under his eyes.

“Hard work?” Lynia asked from her seat next to his.

“Very,” he mumbled, taking a long pull.

“One would almost hate to ask you to provide more company for them.”

“Us old souls have to stick together, don’t we?” Aevar chuckled.

“Quite so. The duties of Canoness are heavy. Having the chance to avoid those duties is a welcome relief.”

“Avoiding duties? You’re a bad Canoness.”

“I remember telling you that I was not always a Canoness,” Lynia laughed. Aevar could tell that the old bat showing off her tongue piercing.

“That right there is all the reminder that I need,” Aevar chuckled. “Must be hard running an entire convent full of women.”

“And part of the planet,” Lynia said. “Remember, this is a Cardinal World. Faith is the sword and shield of the Imperium, but on a Cardinal World, it is everything.”

“Right…faith,” Aevar mumbled.

“Is that doubt I hear in your voice? Perhaps your tinkering _are_ leading you to dark places.”

“The only place their leading me to is a workout of my kidneys,” Aevar said, holding up his flagon of mead. “This is just hard work.”

“What progress are you making?”

“Slow, if any,” he admitted, taking another drink. “Legato is truly gifted as a genetor, and I like to think I’m no slouch either, but we’re working on a project the Emperor himself didn’t finish.”

“If only because of the Heresy.”

“If it was easy for him, he would have finished before Horus turned traitor. We’re just trying to bash out heads into the wall and see what comes of it. Hopefully by the time our new tech priests arrive. What are some of the things you have to deal with as the defacto ruler of a planet?”

“Maintaining buildings makes a bulk of the work. Each a work of art that needs loving care,” Lynia said. “Not to mention disciplining some of the more…rambunctious sisters.”

“From rebellious Sister to Canoness. The circle is complete!”

“It appears so,” Lynia laughed. “But my duties now require me to discipline those Sisters. I’m sure your brothers can point a few of them out.”

“I’m sure they can.”

Lynia waited for Aevar to talk. He said nothing.

“…And?” She asked.

“And what?”

“And they will talk?”

“Hel no. Blood Claws hate authority, probably more so than the rest of us. Good luck getting them to do anything you want them to.”

“You could order them.”

“Aye, I could, but I know their limits.”

“And why’s that?”

“It starts with an ‘E’ and end in an ‘cclesiarchy.’ We get along with them about as well as we get along with the Inquisition.”

“Ah, the big, bad Ecclesiarchy, men and women who hold power over all from systems away.”

“Only the Emperor should truly hold power over us. Anyone else either a sham, fraud, or heretic.”

“Really?”

“More or less. Besides, you’re all outsiders; you wouldn’t last a day on Fenris. Live through a few storms, make some red snow and stare down a thunderwolf, and maybe we’ll listen to you. But if you rely on some written words on a piece of paper, what good is that?”

“Interesting. Might truly makes right with you.”

“It does for you, too. Only your might is a religious might.”

“I guess it can be seen that way,” Lynia said. “We’re all borrowing power from someone else. My power comes from the Prioress of the Convent Sanctorum, who proposed my election to the Cardinals, who voted and approved my election, granting me the position of Canoness- Preceptor. They, in turn, draw their power from the Ecclesiarch, and from the Ecclesiarch, the High Lords of Terra, and from them, the Emperor. That makes my power, my ‘might,’ five times removed.”

“Na, you don’t have any real power.”

“And why would you say that?” Lynia asked, eyes narrowing.

“Because the High Lords of Terra rule in the Emperor’s name; they’re not the Emperor himself.”

“Unless you have hit your head rather hard lately, the Emperor is sitting on the Golden Throne, silent in his eternal vigil.”

 _Dying by the second,_ Aevar bitterly thought.

“Aye, I know that,” he made himself say. “But they’re still a bunch of old men who think their shit don’t stink like anyone else’s. They say they act in the Emperor’s name, so everyone thinks they do, and they give them all the power their egos can handle. Yea, I know they can order an exterminatus on us any time they really want, but they’d never last an hour on Fenris.”

“You put a lot of stock in your strength.”

“We live on a death world, and we only respect killing. Shit, even Russ himself didn’t give a flying fuck about the Emperor when he first came to the planet. Had to be put in place; had to realize the Emperor’s might to give him to bend the knee.”

“We say that’s an act of stubbornness, even heresy.”

“And we say it’s a damn fool thing to do to simply bend the knee to anyone. If you want to rule us, you’d better fucking prove it. If you keep just bending the knee to anyone in fancy clothing, before long you’ll get someone who doesn’t have the right to rule over you, and then all Hel breaks loose.”

“You may call us damn fools, but you do realize that you’re seen as shortsighted, dead brained simpletons for simply bludgeoning your way to the top, yes? Simply being the strongest doesn’t guarantee that one would be a good ruler; merely the strongest.

“A ruler needs to be a stateswoman, not just a general. She must be a diplomat, not just a barbarian. They must know when to talk and when to strike, not to see everything as a nail that needs be hammered into place.”

“Fair points, all of ‘em. That might fly in the rest of the Imperium, but it don’t count for shit on Fenris.”

“Always invoking your death world heritage,” Lynia sighed. “Why do you feel the need to justify your actions with reminding us that you were destined to die the second your mothers dropped you from their wombs?”

“Because it’s true. Everyone seems to forget that the second we become Sky Warriors, brothers in the Vlka Fenryka, we don’t because as articulate as the Blood Angels, or as disciplined as the Ultramarines. We’re survivors before we can walk, and killers before we can talk. We are an entire Chapter of killers, more so than any other Space Marine.

“There are marines who are great generals, merciless hunters and cunning strategists. We’re none of those things. We have a very specific role to play, and our very birth on the ice cements us for that role.”

“Which is?”

“We’re the Emperor’s executioners,” he grinned. “No job too dirty, no deed to dark. The Ultramarines say they’re the builders of empires, but we’re the destroyers.”

“And if the Emperor told you to kill your fellow brothers?”

“You’ve never heard the story of how Prospero burned, didn’t you?”

“I have, actually,” Lynia said. “I’m simply… _perturbed_ that you take pride in such a dark role.”

“That’s the idea, sweet sister,” Aevar smiled wolfishly. “That’s the entire idea.”

“Oh, how I _do_ miss these talks of ours.”

 

* * *

 

Legato stared at the holo-screen, then rubbed his eyes.

“How’s the work going?” Aevar asked, walking into the small room.

“Slow. I can get three of the seeds together, but the seven others are proving…troublesome. Every day that the tech priests are withheld is a blessing, but I’m getting to my wit’s end about this. I try to copy the alleles, put them in the order of the Emperor’s helix, but they just won’t take! I can see it, Aevar. I can see the perfect gene-seed floating in front of me. Mocking me.”

“Take it easy, there. It’s a hunt, a search for the truth, and we’re closer to it now more than ever. You need to take a step back, see what we can change. What are we using as the base this time?”

“Dark Angels.”

“Ah, the first recovered chapter. At least the fucking smurfs didn’t turn out to be the right base.”

“But they are the most stable gene-seed, which didn’t work with the wilder samples.”

“Damn, think the Angels are insufferable _now_ , wait until their egos swell from being the base seed of the new Emperor,” Aevar laughed. “Well, we know that the more stable gene-seed doesn’t react favorably with the less stable, so we can’t use any of those as a base.

“Now correct me if I’m wrong, but if the other gene-seed samples are too wild, they’re prone to mutation. But if they’re too stable, they’re prone to stagnation, resistant to growth, right? That means we need to find a way to make a helix that’s neither too wild, nor too stiff.”

“That’s right.”

“Shit, this puts us in a real fucking bind.”

“I get it,” Legato said, an idea hitting him. “We don’t find the sample that’s stable, or wild. We need to find the sample that’s in-between, able to bond with the unstable samples, and stable ones.”

“Ah, I see,” Aevar laughed. “Who do you elect as leader of the left handers and right handers? The only fucker in the room that’s ambidextrous! Good find, brother!”

“The Blood Angels have a gene-seed deficiency that’s nearly a perfectly fifty-fifty,” he said. “That can be our new base.”

Aevar pulled the plug on the latest batch of experimental gene-seed, carrying it to the incinerator that Croan built. He closed the door and it was turned to less than ash in a flash. Not even blinking at seeing the last four days of work being destroyed, Legato prepared a fresh batch.

“Eau de Blood Angels,” Aevar chuckled, pulling a vial of replicated gene-seed from its incubation bath. Legato pulled a sample, and examined it under a microscope.

“Perfect,” he said, going back to his logic-computer. “According to the Mechanicus’ database, the Salamanders have a ninety-percent chance of deficiency. That makes them the wildest gene-seed that we have. They’re the first ones we will add.”

“What?” Aevar yelled.”

“I’m sure it’s right,” Legato said. “I’m the one who last updated the records on the Salamanders.”

“No, no, no, the Salamanders beat us?” Ironclaws sputtered. “Fekke it, I’ll have to have words with Croan.”

Legato snorted as he accepted the vial from Aevar. He pulled a clean pipette, and put a sample on another microscope.

“Yes, there it is. There’s the faulty genes. And looking at the Blood Angels, there are the faulty genes there.” He matched them up, and made mental notes of which genes to remove.

“And you remember the right way the genes are supposed be?”

“I couldn’t forget it even if I wanted to. That helix is burned into my very soul.”

Bringing his servo-arm to his side, he mentally selected pipettes and suction tubes, and began pulling the faulty genes from the Blood Angels’ sample. Once that was done, he began pulling the good genes from the Salamander’s sample. They were few and far between, but they matched perfectly with what was pulled from the Blood Angels’, and that matched a portion of the Emperor’s gene-seed.

“I think we got it,” he said.

“Good. Think we have enough samples to re-create the Emperor’s gene-seed? We can’t exactly get any samples from the Traitor Legions.”

“I think we do. Like I said, many gene-seed samples are similar enough that there’s plenty of overlap. Just enough genetic variance to result in a new Chapter, but not enough to render it totally inhuman.”

“Then what’s next? Some Ultramarines to even it out?”

“Exactly.”

Aevar handed him a sample. Legato compared the two samples, cross-referenced it with the image burned into his brain, and pulled the bad genes from the Blood Angels’, and replaced it with the good of the Ultramarines. He sent the image to the holo-screen, where Aevar studied it.

“Damn. That looks steady as a rock. What next?”

“Let’s get your Chapter out of the way.”

A vial was presented to him, and Legato went to work. He had replaced two faulty genes when the strand unraveled.

“Dammit!”

“Too much wild?”

“Far too much. Shit, we have to start again.”

“Don’t feel too bad. This isn’t rocket worshipping, this is gene whispering.”

Legato snorted, fed the unviable sample to the incinerator, and started again, making note of which genes he pulled from where. He added the Salamanders, Ultramarines, and Space Wolves to the base. It stood, wobbly, then held.

“Good, good, stay together…”

The gene stayed together. Legato heaved a sigh of relief.

“Oh, fuck,” Aevar groaned. The sample bounced, then petrified, breaking into fragments. “Too many stable genes.”

The old was burned, and the new was loaded. Legato worked feverishly, mixing gene after gene after gene, each in accordance to the Emperor’s perfect sample. The samples steadied themselves, then spun out of control, the unstable genes unraveling the entire helix. Bits were swapped, and the sample petrified, drying out as the stable genes prevented any movement, any growth.

“Grab some shut eye,” Aevar said. He carried a simple cot with him, and set it up behind Legato. “We’ve been at this for nearly two days.”

“But the work…”

“Will get messed up if you keep falling asleep on your feet.”

Legato passed out the moment he hit the cot. Eventually, he came to, a cold plate of food in front of him.

“Missed some meals,” Aevar said, trying his hand at the gene manipulation.

“Thank you, brother.” He shoveled the food into his mouth as fast as his hands, and servo-arms, could push them it. “How goes it?”

“Not much progress, but I’m learning. Good thing you can sketch; without these fucking compulsive drawings of yours, I’d be lost.”

They switched places, and Legato went back to spinning the genes.

“Damn, this place smells like a couple a shut-ins, yea?”

“Hello, Maeva,” Legato said, not even taking his eyes off the microscope.

“Ya hard at work?”

“We’re making progress,” Aevar said.

“We could tell. Lynia sends a message. She says, ‘Ya don’t vox, ya don’t write, it’s like ya don’t care.’”

“Think you can handle yourself for a night, Legato?” Aevar chuckled. “Got to give the old bat some company.”

“Of course.”

“Yea, have some fun with tha’ scary dragon lady. Throw her over a barrel ta lighten her up.”

“Maeva, behave.”

 

* * *

 

“I take it you didn’t take a single break since I left,” Aevar said as he walked back in the tent.

“Break?”

“Thought so. Where we at?”

“Nowhere. We only have five working together,” Legato said. “The same amount of genes that you helped me put together.”

“Shit, we’re doing great. More than halfway there.”

“That may be, but I only seem to make any progress when you’re here.”

“Must be my damned wyrd, saving both our worthless asses,” Aevar said. “Come on, let’s get to it.”

The hours spun by, and exhaustion overtook him again. Aevar took over while he slept, only for him to take over once he was awake.

“Eight,” Legato said as the sample stabilized. “We got eight out of the nine.”

“Let’s get it done,” Aevar grinned, his eyes bloodshot. “I need some shut-eye. Wake me when we shake the Imperium to the very core.”

Aevar took a seat by the door, and went into the meditation sleep that all Space Marines went into. Legato worked, pulling genes apart, and replacing them with good, stable ones. The sample under his microscope looked more and more like the Emperor’s gene-seed with every passing second.

His hands shook, and his eyes burned. They barely had enough samples to recreate the helix.

“Aevar.”

The Space Wolf was awake in a second.

“What?”

Legato sent the image to the holo-screen. Aevar stood up and walked over.

“Fuck my twenty generations of ancestors,” he whispered.

On the screen, floating in solution, was a single strand of gene-seed. The helix looked just like the Emperor’s; it was nearly perfect, with nearly no mutation, defect, or blemish to it. The only flaw was the damaged Y-gene.

“I…I think we did it.”

“Except for that Y gene. That’s twisted to high Hel.”

“That was the only gene that I couldn’t get a clean sample from,” Legato said. “Maybe if we had more samples…no, I don’t think we could’ve done it, even with the Traitor Legions. All nine loyalist chapter’s gene-seed, gathered into one.”

He fed the data through the logic-computer. It clicked, then spat out a result.

“Defects detected: deteriorated Y seed,” it read. “One-hundred percent stable. Zero-percent chance of mutation.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Aevar breathed.

“We did it. For all but the Y seed.”

“Better make duplicates of it before we go messing with that.”

“Of course.”

Aevar started another bath while Legato gingerly pulled the sample from the microscope. He placed it in the bath, and monitored every single variable that he could.

“It’s replicating,” he said. “What do we do about the Y seed?”

“I say we find some regular, stable human gene-seed and improvise.”

Aevar bit his tongue, staring at the solution bath.

“What we’ve done…”

“But we’re not done yet,” Legato said. “We’ve got the theory, but we don’t know if the gene-seed will be accepted by a foreign body. Or if it will replicate by itself. Or if anything can come from it.”

“Still.”

Legato looked at the holographic projection. He realized he was in such a state of shock, he missed the feeling of absolute horror that was filling him.

“Yea.”

 

* * *

 

Julas’ armored footfalls echoed down the stone chambers, compounding with the steps of the rest of the guard. The new tech priests were arriving, and the Blasphemer’s presence was necessary.  He pounded on the thick door, his knock echoing through the massive hall.

“Alright, alright, I heard ya,” the mortal whore said from behind the door.

The massive door was pushed open. As it opened even more, he could see that Croan the Salamander was helping her open the massive thing. Of course, the feat was only possible because he wore his power armor, and even then, it was slow going.

“Greetings, brothers,” Croan said pleasantly.

“We have come to escort the Blasphemer back to the Sister’s monastery. The new shipment of tech priests has arrived in system, and his presence is required.”

“I’m here, I’m here.” The Blasphemer loped over to them, wearing his full armor, sans helm. “Yea, I heard our new help is here.”

“And you are ready for once. Imagine that.”

“Yea, finally got to a good stopping point,” he laughed. “Come on in. We’re just finishing some cleaning.”

“I was unaware that the wolves had a word for ‘clean,’” Julas said.

“Ha! Well played!”

The column of Marines walked in to the massive chamber, and Julas came to a sudden halt. Just as the Blasphemer said, all the wolves were in the chamber, tidying up. Helfist was even sweeping. Sweeping! In full armor!

There was a _whoosing_ noise, and the unmistakable smell of prometheum. It reeked, seeping through the helm’s filters. Off to the side of the chamber, Croan was burning something with his massive flamer.

“Finished,” he said, killing the flamer.

“Is that fire necessary?”

“Of course,” Croan said. “We are sterilizing our tools, destroying unviable samples.”

“These are the samples that you took from us? Has there been any progress?”

“Sadly, no,” the Blasphemer sighed. “We kinda figured, but we still had to give it a go.”

Then the Nightmare would continue. Julas did his best not to show any emotion.

“Then let us see what the Mechanicus wishes,” he said. “Come with us.”

“Alright Claws, form up,” Helfist yelled, tossing the broom towards a closet. The Claws ambled to Helfist, not in the precise rank and file as the other marines, but they came willing.

“I do believe we are witnessing a miracle,” Julas said.

“Go ahead and rub it in,” the Blasphemer laughed. “Let’s go.”

Julas lead them through the massive corridor, towards the front of their new mountain lair. The Claws were chatting, but were quiet. They talked in their native tongue, and were even conversing with that mortal whore as well. At the entrance of their domain, a small guard stood by, waiting for them. Standing at the front was Canoness Lynia.

“Canoness,” Julas said. “Coming to give us company on the quick walk over?”

“Don’t think of this as me keeping you company. Think of this as me avoiding the stress of organizing the landing party.”

“I didn’t know Sisters could be so selfish.”

“I am not being selfish: I am letting others delegate to their strengths.”

“I love it when you’re clever,” Aevar laughed.

The Sisters led the way, and the wolves went back to complaining. Not only were the tech priests coming, but Julas was sure that he would be receiving news from Ultramar, updates of the battles he was missing. He missed his brothers; their five-year service would not be over fast enough.

They walked through the mountain layer, through the hallways of the Sisters of Battle, until they finally arrived at the designated landing pad. Waiting for them at the landing pad were more Sisters, as well as Inquisitor Parsef, his team of Grey Knights, and the assassin, Geist of Krieg.

“Inquisitor,” Julas said. “Have we word from the tech priests?”

“The ship has just broken from the warp, and they are on their way down,” Parsef said. “Ah, here it is.”

Looking to the sky, a Thunderhawk descended.

“Marines, at attention.” As one, they snapped from their ‘at ease’ stance, to at full attention.

“Sisters, attention,” Lynia called, and the Sisters joined them.

“Dammit, someone knock that cub for me,” Helfist groaned. A head was cuffed, and a wolf slunk into something resembling a row.

The ship came down, landing perfectly now that there weren’t any damned fool wolves to dive bomb them. The ramps lowered, and along with the team of fifteen tech priests came five giants in regal black armor, armed with massive spears. Even to Space Marines they were tall.

“Am I going blind, or are those Custodes?” Aevar asked.

“I…those _are_ Custodes,” Julas said. “What are they doing away from Terra?”

The lead Custode walked over. He pulled his helmet off, revealing a grizzled, weathered face that looked like it was cut from petrified wood. Deep cuts and scars ran across his cheeks; one heavy scar traced from his cheek up to his brow. His hair, while black, was sprinkled with silver. He didn’t look truly statuesque or heroic like an Ultramarine, or any Space Marine for that matter; he was simply an old warrior. Yet despite his aged appearance, he moved as fluidly as a mortal man in his prime.

“Canoness-Preceptor Lynia, greetings from the High Lords of Terra,” he said. “You may call me Kemuel.”

“Welcome to Dimmimar, Kemuel,” Lynia said. “I did not receive word that we were to play host to Custodes. I was under the impression you never left the Imperial Palace.”

“Alright, I gotta ask,” Aevar asked. “Is the whole ‘sending Custodes’ thing because of me?”

“That is correct.”

“Damn, do _I_ feel special,” Aevar asked. “Why’d they send you?”

“The High Lords of Terra were understandably upset upon hearing of your numerous blasphemies, and failure to adhere to the agreement with the Mechanicus,” Kemuel said. “They had wanted to declare you and your Chapter a traitor Legion, and declaring exterminatus against Fenris.”

“But we know how that ended, right Parsef?”

“Do you insist on rubbing this in?” The Inquisitor asked.

“Now that you mention it…”

“While the Inquisition was placated by agreement with the Fabricator-General,” the Custode continued, “they wanted to pull their support with the limited success you have had with tutoring fellow tech priests.”

“’Limited.’ That’s putting it nicely,” Aevar said. “Told you the Inquisition would find a way to kill me.”

“It certainly appears so,” Kemuel said. “When the High Lords of Terra declared the deal broken, they called for exterminatus. This prompted the Fabricator-General to pull their support from the Imperium, namely the Navy. Ships drifted in the void for a full day before another compromise was struck.”

“Holy shit, they actually did all that crap for little old me?” Aevar gasped.

“That’s rich!” Silverwolf, the sergeant, laughed. “Hot damn, a whole day? Holy shit, wish I coulda seen those old men shit themselves.”

“As well as the entire population of Terra,” Julas said. “You think that having lost command of the entire Imperial would worry only a few men? The civilians must have thought the End Times were upon them.”

“You are exactly right,” Kemuel said. “Terra nearly descended into a madhouse. My Custode brothers and the Arbides nearly lost control of the Imperial Palace. The High Lords were adamant in their decision to brand the Space Wolves traitors, and the Fabricator-General was equally stubborn in branding you the salvation of Mars, no matter how much the Inquisition howled that the deal was broken. This prompted the High Lords to attempt to remove the current Fabricator-General from his position.”

“Russ’ balls, they tried to force out the Fabricator-General?” Aevar spat. “That’s like declaring war against Mars!”

“Quite so, and they were nearly able to pull him from his rank. While they argued, Terra nearly destroyed itself.”

“I assume that a war with Mars was avoided, else we would be hearing something very different,” Julas said. “How did it end?”

“Us Custodes forced the High Lords to the bargaining table. The Space Wolves would remain a loyal Chapter—“

“Wait, we _weren’t_ loyal?” Helfist asked.

“—And we volunteered to guard the Blasphemer,” Kemuel said, glaring at the Rune Priest for interrupting.

“This is all _very_ flattering, but why’d you have to come on out to look over little old me?” Aevar asked.

“The High Lords were positive that you would corrupt the Space Marine guards, even the Sisters of Battle, to join you to damnation.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lynia snapped.

“That is what earned them the ire of the Ecclesiarchy,” Kemuel said. “So, acting despite the High Lords, the Ecclesiarchy pulled their support from the Inquisition, and backed the Mechanicus. It was because that act alone that the Fabricator-General kept his position, and war with Mars was avoided. But the rest of the High Lords were unwavering in their belief that if one Space Wolf could fall, others would as well.”

“Almost like they don’t like us,” Aevar said flatly.

“Quite. The deal that we… _encourage_ the High Lords to take is that the Blasphemer would continue to work; these relics you are making are proving more than useful in the never ending wars the Imperium is fighting. Their value alone is worth your life.”

“It’s so good to know that someone cares about me,” Aevar sighed dramatically.

“In exchange for the cooperation of the High Lords, we will serve as guards and an additional execution force, should the worst come to pass.”  Kemuel shifted uncomfortably. “I do not wish to offend, but the High Lords have said, and I quote, ‘there have been traitor First Founding Chapters and traitor Sisters, but _never_ traitor Custodes.’”

“They fucking dare?” Lynia spat.

“The cheeky bastards,” Silverwolf snarled. “They dare imply…”

“They _have_ implied,” Aevar said. “And we should be glad that they were able to be persuaded by the Custodes.”

“Bastards,” Lynia growled.

“Aye, fuckin’ bastards,” Aevar agreed.

Julas didn’t know what he found more disturbing: hearing the Sister Canoness curse the High Lords of Terra, or him agreeing with her.

“Well, my thanks for cooling their tempers,” Lynia said, her mood suddenly, professionally, changing in the blink of an eye. “Would you like to view your new patrolling grounds?”

“We would greatly appreciate it,” Kemuel said.

“Most excellent.”

“Sergeant Julas,” the Custode said, “there is news to be delivered to you. In private.”

 

* * *

 

With the addition of the new tech priests, the Sisters had to provide more hands to carry their belongings back to their side of the mountain base. It was a little off-putting, though, to have five Custodes flank them.

“Guess we better get used to seeing them around,” Aevar said.

“Yea, ‘nother blade ta hack yer head off. Wha’ fun,” Maeva said. She carried what looked like a hermetically sealed box.

“Not a whole lot we can do about that. You get a present or something?”

Maeva sighed, working up the courage to open the box. She pulled at the tabs that secured the lid, and pulled it open with a pop. Mist poured out of it, along with the glorious feeling of cold.

“Fuck, ice from Fernis!” She stuck her hands in, feeling the coldness seep into her fingers. “Damn, but I fuckin’ missed this.” Maeva pulled a few chunks of ice out and rubbed her face with it. “Nice an’ cold.”

“May I?”

She pulled a small bottle, not quite a vial but not big enough to be a jar, and handed the box to Aevar. He took a big sniff, getting the smell of cold back in his system.

“What you got in there?”

“Letter from Sven,” she said. “Folks back home are gettin’ worried he ain’t havin’ any kids ta pass on.”

“He’s not big on kids?”

“He’s gay.”

“Well, there’s your problem. What did he send you?”

“He’s…well, ya know, his batter.”

“He do this to all the women he likes?”

“Only th’ one he’s got a deal with,” she said. “Ya know how folks always wonder how ya gonna have kids an’ wha’ not, yea?”

“I might be old, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Well, with us likin’ our own sex better ‘n th’ other, we made a deal. If they really start bitchin’ ‘bout it, he’d do his thin’ in a cup, an’ I’d play with a baster.”

“All you need now is a baster.”

Maeva reached into the box and pulled out a baster. A tag hung from it: _PEOPLE WON’T STOP BITCHING. HAVE FUN._

“I like that man.”

“He’d be over th’ moon hearin’ tha’ from a Sky Warrior. So, looks like I gotta do some playin’ when tha’ time a th’ month hits, yea?”

“This is gonna sound strange…”

“I get chills when ya say tha.’”

“You mind if I take that when we’re back?”

“Weirdest shit I think I’ve ever heard,” she said, staring at him. “Wait, is this about ‘tha’?’”

“It sure is. Need a bigger sample size to try and put the boot in on it.”

“So wha’ we gonna do ‘bout ‘tha?’”

“No clue. Technically, it’s not finished. We’ll figure something out or just torch the rest of it if nothing comes of it.”

“Oi! Whore!” A Claw called.

“Wha’?!”

“It true you got some ice from Fenris?”

“’Course I fuckin’ do. Wha’s it ta ya?”

“It ain’t cold enough here. Let me have some.”

“I’ll let ya have some when ya stop playin’ with yer dick,” she yelled back. That got the Claws to laugh and the Custodes to gape. “Damn place. It ain’t cold ‘nough here.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they were back at the Blasphemer’s mountain base, the Custodes immediately went to work, examining everything, leaving no stone unturned. They refused to leave the massive entrance until they have found every possible means of entry.

“’Course there’s a way inside,” the crass mortal Maeva sputtered. “There’s a big fuckin’ door in th’ middle a th’ way!”

“We appreciate your concern, but this is our duty,” Kemuel said. “Let us work, mortal.”

“Fine, ya wanna go over every fuckin’ stone, be my guest,” she grumbled.

“It is not a question of what we want, but of what we are called for.”

“Maeva, might want to take that little slice of home into your chamber,” Aevar said. “We still gotta show these tech-priests around.”

Sure enough, the long line of tech priests was faithfully following him around.

“Look like a mother goose,” Helfist laughed.

“That’s _Greybeard_ Mother Goose to you!” Aevar snapped. That got a peel of laughter from the wolves, as well as a few marines.

“Sergeant Julas, a word if you will,” Kemuel asked.

“Yes, Custode,” Julas said, “as you wish. Marines, fall out and return to patrol duty.”

Kemuel walked towards the side of the massive entrance, letting Aevar, the tech priests and wolves pass them.

“How can we assist?” Julas asked.

“You and your marines have been patrolling the entire facility, have you not? We would need your every report, your every knowledge of the layout. Entrances, exits, lapses in security, everything.”

“We shall give you all that we know. But Custode, may I ask you a question? With you here to replace us, what shall become of us? Will we return to our Chapters?”

“Due to the…impasse caused by the High Lords of Terra, we have to remain true to the Fabricator-General’s orders. A team of marines will replace you in two years’ time. Sadly, I must be the bearer of bad news: I have word from Macragge, about your squad.”

“Octavian? Have they suffered heavy losses? Have I lost anyone?”

Kemuel’s worn-out face was impossible to read.

“I do not know how to put this. Please forgive me for being blunt,” he said. “Squad Octavian has perished to the man. Word was passed to Terra to ring the Bell of Lost Souls for them.”

Julas was sure that he was standing straight, but the floor felt like it gave out from under him. He had to check his armor’s status to confirmed that he had not moved an inch.

“What?”

“The Ultramarines were very mum on the subject; they refused to give me a name. Were it not for us traveling here, they would not have even entrusted the Astropaths to sending the message. They were dead set on making sure that this was repeated to the least amount of people; before entrusting me with this, I was sworn into secrecy, never to repeat this to another soul.”

“How…how did it happen?”

“Again, they were mum. The only details they gave is that your replacement had lost his faith in the Emperor. He had dragged your squad to oblivion, sacrificing them.”

No, no, this could not be. _He_ could not have turned traitor, a veteran of countless battles. It was not possible. Julas had already had one brother fall from grace; there could not be another. Please, by the blood of Macragge, let this be some sick joke.

“Was he caught?”

“I am afraid not.”

“My thanks.” Julas swallowed hard. “Custode, I know that you have requested my assistance in securing the facility, but given the news, may I request to aid you at a later time?”

“Of course. I regret that I had to be the one to inform you.”

Julas made his way through the mountain retreat, blindly walking to his chambers. How could…no, he mustn’t think of _him_ , of his name. Once a marine turned traitor, he was no brother, no Son of Macragge. His name would be stricken from every record to hide their shame, like he never existed. The only thing in its place would be a blackened mark, the hallmark of shame.

He made it back to his chambers just as the tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Octavian squad, destroyed. His brothers sacrificed to a dark god…how could it be?

Biting back against the tears, Julas removed his helm.

“Servitor,” he called. “Unseal me.”

From a tiny attached room, a mindless servitor exited, and began undoing his armor. It took nearly an hour, giving Julas more time to think than he’d ever needed, or ever wanted.

To have one squad mate turn traitor was a black mark on the stainless honor of the Chapter. To have two would doom Octavian squad. They will become another dead squad, their name retired, never to be used again, leaving Julas in a precarious spot.

To have two men under his command turn their cloaks and lovingly embrace the power of the warp was beyond shame. How could he ever be trusted in a position of power again? He was what the wolves would call a ‘bad sign,’ a ‘dis-astro.’ Who would want to follow him, lest he bring his damned luck with him? He was a dead man walking to the Ultramarines.

“Finished,” the servitor said in its mechanical voice. Julas took the breastplate from it, and peered inside. Etched inside were the names of his squad mates, those who have served with him, and died under his command. He found the offending name, and grabbed the servitor.

“Activate you saw,” he commanded. The servitor raised a mechanical hand, and a saw buzzed to life. He grabbed it, and ground out the name. “Go. Now.”

Julas was dead, never to return to Macragge. But there was still one thing he could do that could benefit the Ultramarines. He would go to the astropath tomorrow, send word that his Chapter need not send any more men to guard the Blasphemer.

He would become a permanent addition to his execution force, an Ultramarine in name only.


	21. A Simple Plan

Kemuel strode through the mountain base, the weight of his armored steps echoing off the halls. It was nothing more than an upgraded retreat the Sisters rarely used, but with a little Custode help, it would turn into a proper stronghold. He couldn’t wait to host a blood game, to test the perimeters and sneak into the central forge room. It wouldn’t be like the blood games at the Imperial Palace, so maybe he would stand a chance of winning.

A roar from a deep chamber hit his ears. It was a room the Space Wolves took as a sparring chamber. Kemuel never interacted with Space Marines, let alone Space Wolves. They were a loud and boisterous bunch; untamed, uncouth, and rude. But they did have an energy that he was beginning to appreciate. After guarding the Emperor for so long, it was…nice to have a change of pace; refreshing, even. It might not smack of honor and valor to not guard the Master of Mankind, to be so far away from Him, but the energy the Space Wolves brought with them was infectious.

Pulling off his helm to feel the cooler air, he ventured down the steps to their practice cages. Two shirtless youths were in the middle of one, pounding each other as hard as they could. Around the cages, the others watched, yelling and cursing as the combatants traded blows. Helfist stood next to the cage, the only one wearing a shirt, arms folded across his chest, a small grin on his face.

Helfist was the first one to notice Kemuel walk in. He said nothing, but the others picked up on some non-verbal cue, for silence quickly fell as they turned towards him. Even the two fighting men stopped, their gene-enhanced bodies quickly repairing the split lips and bloody noses.

“Kemuel, what brings you down here?” Helfist asked.

“My duties,” Kemuel replied. “I have to check every crevice of this place to find possible points of entry.”

“Sounds like dull shit.”

“It is my duty.”

“Aye, and we all have to do our duties, right?”

“That is right. I see that you are practicing yours.” He nodded to the cages.

“Yea, the Claws are having a grand old time beating the piss outta each other,” Vermund said. “They got enthusiasm. Maybe some skill, but we’re working on that.”

“Your Chapter seems to take close combat very seriously.”

“Damn straight,” he grinned. “Everything dies when you cut off their head. What about you Custodes? How do bodyguards train?”

“To protect the Emperor, not ourselves.”

“But you’re no slouch in a fight yourselves, right?”

“Are you challenging me to a fight, little wolf?” Kemuel asked, his scars twisting minutely as his lips threatened to pull into a grin.

That got the Claws. They let out one big, collective, slow ‘oooooooh.’

“Shut up, all of you,” Helfist said. “I’m just saying that you have to be pretty handy in a brawl to be guard to the Emperor.”

“Martial prowess is emphasized. But my question remains: are you challenging me to a fight?”

“Augh, you’ll pummel me to the floor,” Helfist sighed. A few Claws scoffed at him, and Kemuel felt his twin hearts pick up, beating faster in preparation for a fight. “Fine. Let’s do it. Out of the cage.”

Kemuel set his guardian spear against the wall. It was gene-encoded; only he could fire it or activate the power field. Leaving it alone, unattended, bit at him, but he was putting his faith in the Wolves’ honor, and they were known for holding their promises. The Claws left the cage and immediately began pushing each other to the side for the best seats.

“Think you can get out of that armor fast enough?” Helfist asked.

“I am apt at maintaining my own gear.”

“Good. I’d hate to be punching that thing with my bare hands.”

“I thought they called you ‘Helfist.’”

“Aye, and you’ll see why in a bit.” Vermund said. He held up a finger. “One punch. That’s all I’ll throw.”

“Because that is all it will take?” Kemuel asked, raising his eyebrow.

“No, that’s all I think I could get in!”

Kemuel was quick to get out of his obsidian armor. It was strange being free from it. Vermund was waiting for him in the cage.

“Fekke, why’d I agree to this?” He muttered. Kemuel towered over him by a head.

“You were the one who challenged me.”

“I guess. Us Sons of Russ love challenges. For better or worse.”

“Do I have the right to assume that you will not be using your psykic powers?”

“It’s druid powers,” he spat. “And no, I won’t.”

“Excellent. Let us begin.”

Helfist tensed, ready to move, but Kemuel eased himself into a ‘ready’ stance, and waited. The Claws howled for the fight to start, but Vermund took his time, reading his stance and weighing his options. Kemuel couldn’t help but grin. It was a mind game he was playing, plain and simple.

Eventually, Helfist realized that he would have to throw the first punch. He sighed and moved in, half-heartedly throwing a punch. Kemuel was on him, slapping the punch away and returning one in kind. To Helfist’s credit, he was nearly able to put up a block in time. Nearly.

The punch landed dead center on his right eye, at the center of the radiating tribal tattoo, sending him spinning. Kemuel moved in, keeping the distance close, as Helfist retaliated with a kick, which Kemuel deftly blocked. He pressed the wolf, pushing him around the cage, landing hit after hit. Try as he might, Helfist couldn’t land a retaliatory blow. The Claws soon went from yelling for a fight to yelling for poor Helfist on his feet.

For a Space Marine, he was doing remarkably well; he wasn’t completely dismantled by the attack. Helfist kept his form up, throwing counter punches and kicks with practiced speed and technique. If Kemuel wasn’t a Custode, he would be off-put by it.

Eventually, Helfist was driven to his knees from the flurry of blows. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth.

“Have you had enough?” Kemuel asked.

“I still got one punch for you,” Helfist groaned, spitting out blood as he stood up.

“Very well.” And the beating continued.

Once more, Kemuel had to give Vermund credit; he kept his defenses up despite getting the stuffing knocked out of him. But eventually the beatings wore him down. His right eye began swelling shut, his left leg soon gave out, and the ribs on his right side appeared to be broken, for he cherished his side. The Claws begged him to fight back.

“This fight is at an end,” Kemuel said. “Please, for your sake, stop.”

“Just on punch,” Helfist mumbled.

“Stubborn to the end,” Kemuel sighed. He took a step forward to land a knock-out blow. He lashed out, connecting with Helfist’s temple. At least, he thought he did.

At the last second, Vermund ducked. He pushed off on a leg that was feigning pain, opening his eye that Kemuel thought swollen shut, and lashed out with all him might, hitting Kemuel square in the jaw, cracking his head back.

He responded with his own counter-punch, lying the psyker down for good. Kemuel was rubbing his jaw when he realized that Helfist was laughing.

“Got that one punch,” he mumbled. “I win.”

“You did not win.”

“But I got that punch,” he laughed. He held up one shaking finger. “That’s all I wanted to get in.”

“You were beaten squarely. How is that a win?”

“It’s a moral victory,” Vermund slurred. The Claws entered the cage to drag him out. “Want to go again, some other time?”

Kemuel realized that he was seeing stars, and the room seemed to tilt. He tried shaking it off, but they persisted.

“No, I think one fight was a good enough bout.”

“Oh, good. Don’t want to get beat that badly again.”

The Claws carried him out of the room. When he was alone, Kemuel tried to shake out the stars that clouded the outside of his vision. He had to admit, it felt good to be able to get into a fight for once. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being around the Wolves.

 

* * *

 

The dining hall was truly quiet for once.

Aside from the omnipresent chatter coming from the Space Wolves table and the odd Sisters that joined them, the entire hall was incredibly quiet. It struck Geist as strange. Normally there was more energy at meal times.

Sitting in her assumed form among the Sisters, she picked up her empty plate of food.

“Thank you for your company, Sisters,” she said, “but I must return to prayer.”

“Walk with the Emperor,” they recited.

“May you ever stay in His Light.”

Taking a quick look at the meal hall, she spotted her query. Maeva was picking at her food. Again. She would have to talk to her about maintaining the correct nutritional diet. Geist guessed that it would take nearly ten minutes and twelve seconds for her to finish and return her plate to be washed. With those ten minutes to spare, she idly walked through the halls of the monastery. Alone, she could collect her thoughts.

For the past few weeks, Maeva had been uncharacteristically reserved. Was this a kind of seasonal affective disorder that affected the natives of Fenris? Geist ignored the possibility that Maeva might be withdrawing from society and possibly falling into the embrace of Chaos. Her conditioning made her acknowledge the possibility, and it filled her with…with…with _something_ , some feeling she never felt before and couldn’t place. It wasn’t fear, that was burned out of her, but it was something like it.

After walking for ten minutes and ten seconds, Geist found herself approaching the door to the meal hall. She held her breath as she drew closer to the door. When Maeva nearly bumped into her at ten minutes and fifteen seconds, Geist was easily able to avoid her, but made a show of nearly hitting her.

“Oh! My apologies.”

“Fekke, don’t fuckin’ do tha’,” Maeva cursed. “Nearly got my heart ta stop beatin’.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Na, it’s fine,” she said. “Was just headin’ ta bed.”

Geist blinked. Maeva was usually drawn to Sisters with red hair and big breasts; it was the very reason she fashioned her disguise as one. That was nearly twelve full days of erratic behaviors. Geist wanted to believe that Maeva couldn’t possibly be a traitor, but her conditioning was clear: such extended behaviors were a sign of possible indoctrination into a chaos cult. She had to be protected, or eliminated. Geist would never forgive herself if something were to happen to Maeva, so she chased after her.

“Are you well and good?” She asked.

“Wha? Yea, I’m fine, eh? Just tired.”

“This one is worrying about you,” Geist said, breaking character.

“Wha? Geist, tha’ ya? Dammit. Wha’s wrong?”

“You have been acting differently for the past several days. Ignoring attractive Sisters and this one, taking meals in private, and refraining from talking.”

“Okay, this is kinda private. Can we talk in my room?”

“Of course,” Geist said, keeping the excitement from her voice.

Geist let Maeva lead them back to her room. Geist was glad that Maeva no longer got lost, although it did make ‘running into her’ a bit more difficult. When they were in Maeva’s room, the Fenrisian kaerl locked the door.

“Do you want to be the dominant one this time?” Geist asked. “This one greatly enjoys those encounters.”

“It’d be nice ta, but I gotta tell ya somethin’,” Maeva said. “I’m pregnant.”

“Pregnant? This one does not understand.”

“Remember when I told ya ‘bout my friend who don’t like women? Th’ one who’s in ta men? Well, he sent me some of his…man stuff. He kept up his end a th’ bargin, I gotta keep up mine.”

“You are with child?”

“Yea, an’ it’s really fuckin’ with me. Been throwin’ up a lot, an’ food tastes all fucked now.”

Inwardly, Geist sighed; Maeva wasn’t falling to Chaos. Her conditioning relented, and she could truly enjoy being with her.

“How far along are you?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

Geist realized that she was staring at Maeva, and not because of her usual attraction to her.

“This one…she realizes that she has not seen a woman pregnant before.”

“How did ya have kids?”

“The vita-womb. The only know use of cloning technology in the Imperium.”

“Damn. Creepy shit, even if it gives me a whole army of ya. Well, yer gonna have yer hands full with one not ‘fore long. I remember my ma gettin’ with child. She got moody fer a while.”

“Can this one…help, in any way?”

“Of course. Why ya have ta ask?”

“Pregnancy is outside of this one’s circle of experiences and expertise. But this one would like to help you.” She left out ‘protect you.’ Maeva got angry when she said ‘protect.’

“Damn, if ya got a way ta transfer all these mornin’ fuckin’ sicknesses, I’d love ya ‘till the stars went out.”

“What can this one do?”

“Right now, nothin’. Maybe hold me; been feelin’ really strange an’ lonely fer a while.”

“For you, anything.”

Geist gently grabbed Maeva’s hand and hugged her close. She knew that it was impossible to feel anything growing in her stomach, but for some reason, Geist felt that there was something big and great growing inside Maeva. For some reason, it gave her pause.

 

* * *

 

Lynia walked through the massive, newly-reorganized forge. Tech priests were pouring over a few of the Cataphractii suits that were kept as examples. She heard bickering, both in High Gothic as well as in Binary as the men and women tried to make sense of the work that was presented to them. She made her way to Aevar’s private room, knocking before pushing the door open.

“Making yourself right at home, aren’t ya?” Aevar asked. He was standing at his work table, peering down at what looked like a circuit board. His servo-arms were up, and were busy soldering things to the board.

“Seeing as this is _our_ retreat that _you_ have the pleasure of using, I say that I’m within my right to enter as I see fit,” she said. “Unless, of course, you’re hiding something from us.”

“From you? Never,” Aevar smiled. He pushed away from the work table, turning to face her. “So, what can I do for you today, Lynia?”

“I have received a message from the Fabricator-General and the Inquisition.”

“When are our executions?”

“You put no faith in the High Lords of Terra?”

“I don’t put a lot of faith in anything. Especially when the Inquisition is involved.”

“What was that about not having faith?” Lynia asked, eyes narrowing.

Aevar groaned.

“Next time you see Parsef, ask him about ‘Ork snipers.’”

“Orks don’t have snipers.”

“Exactly.” Aevar ignored her perplexed look. “So, what does the Mechanicus say?”

“It is about the Cataphractii armor that you have made. But Ork snipers?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re on the Inquisition’s good side; maybe he’ll give you something resembling a straight answer. Have the Mechanicus made any progress making the armor themselves?”

“No, they haven’t. It appears that whatever you did to build them, no one else can duplicate it.”

“Wait, really? You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not. The Fabricator-General has been fighting the High Lords of Terra as well as the Inquisition. The details weren’t given to me, but with the help of the still-slighted Ecclesiarchy, they were able to convince the Inquisition and High Lords to be more pragmatic than they are vengeful: the relics that you make are too valuable to simply pass by.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Very well. There were many Inquisitors that lobbied to change the terms of your imprisonment.”

“Alright, _now_ you’re shitting me.”

“Again, I shit you not,” Lynia smiled. “The Blood Ravens have given their report, and sing your praises; your armor has been used to turn the tide on many battles, turning defeat into victory. They’ve held off Ork invasions of Shrine Worlds to saving Hive Cities from the terrors of the warp. It’s been enough to bring some Inquisitors to your defense. They’re young and radical, to be sure, but they’re Inquisitors none-the-less.

“Simply put, they work too well for you to be thrown away, and more are needed. You’ll be required to make as many suits, blades and anything else that you can. The wars of the Imperium are, of course, never ending; any work you make will go towards the war efforts.”

“Damn, didn’t expect to be living _this_ long,” he mumbled. “Fekke, don’t this just beat all? Might even have time for ‘that.’”

“’That?’”

“Don’t worry about ‘that.’ It involves Legato and a lot of gene-work.”

“Then I’ll let it be,” Lynia said. “Also, it appears that Maeva’s with child.  How has this happened?”

“The usual way, I guess,” Aevar said with a shrug and a barely withheld grin. “Found a man she was willing to put up with and was able to get his seed in her.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lynia groaned. “Was she…forced upon? I know that we have a few men in the convent, but we haven’t heard of any such…unsavory crimes.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that. Any man that is here has been a perfect gentleman.”

“Didn’t know you’d know gentlemanly behavior,” she laughed.

“We’re full of surprises,” Aevar smiled. “A friend from Fenris sent her his…well, you know. They have an agreement; they’d put together a child to help the tribe grow.”

“Interesting. Given her popularity with a few of the Sisters, they’ve taken her well-being to heart. She seems to have a way of being liked.”

“Or five reasons,” he said, wiggling his fingers.

“Sorry?”

“Never mind. No need to go on a manhunt. Besides, if anyone touched her without her wanting them to, you’d be picking up pieces of them from the floor.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lynia said. “But I have to ask; why did her friend send her…you know. Do Fenrisians see it as the woman’s duty to carry children?”

“Of course. A woman’s duty is to carry children, and it’s the man’s responsibility to give them children.”

“I didn’t take you for one to say that a woman’s responsibility is to have children.”

“Come on, women have children, men give children. Unless you heard of a man giving birth, have you?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Pity. It’d make carrying on the tribe that much easier,” he said. “Everyone has a responsibility to help the tribe endure. So, women carry children, and men give them.”

“And it’s the woman’s responsibility to raise them, too?” Lynia asked, a hard edge creeping into her voice.

“Of course. They’d be pretty bad parents if they didn’t, would they?”

“’They?’”

“The man, too. Didn’t forget about him, did you?”

“You hold the men responsible for raising the child?”

“Last I check, you need both a man and a woman to make baby. Be pretty irresponsible for both to be lousy parents.”

“You’re saying it takes both the mother _and_ the father to raise the child?”

“And the village. It’s pretty hard on the both of ‘em, especially if twins or triplets popped out, you know? Besides, parents can’t be everywhere at once. That’s where the village comes in.”

“It was…not what I was expecting. Your definition of ‘family’ seems very broad.”

“Damn right. The tribe is your family, and your family is the tribe. Can’t have one without the other, so you make sure that both survive.”

“How strange to hear of compassion from a death worlder.”

“Just because we live on a death world doesn’t mean we’re invincible, or can do everything ourselves. We have to look out for each other; knowing our limits is part of what makes us strong.”

“Now there’s wisdom from a death world; I never thought I’d hear it,” Lynia laughed. “Well, let it be known that the Sisters are always helpful. We’ll help her carry the child to term.”

“Thank you. We’ll have to start with some different hours. Maeva’s gonna need all the rest she can get.”

“That we can agree upon. I’ll talk to the kitchen staff and give her preferential treatment.”

“Damn, better food? Maybe _I_ should find a way to get pregnant!”

 

* * *

 

Daybreak shone through the window, into Maeva’s eyes. Groaning, she tried to roll over to get more sleep, but she couldn’t roll very well, and the sun was very bright. She finally gave up, and slowly got up and walked to the window.

“Damn,” she moaned. “Gettin’ knocked up is a bitch.”

“Are you unhappy?” Geist asked from the bed. This morning, she wore the disguise of a simple serf with dishwater blond hair.

“Hard ta be happy when my chemistry is all mixed up,” she said. She walked to the window, looking out at the rising sun peeking out over the Hive City. “Every so often, though, it just feels…Special. Probably th’ hormones an’ what-not.”

“Do you miss Fenris?” Geist asked, walking over to Maeva.

“Yea, I miss th’ snow,” she said. Geist put a hand on her shoulder. Maeva took it. “Th’ snow, th’ cold, th’ food—holy shit, I miss th’ food. Stuff here’s too bland. It’s like this is a dull world, no real flavor to it.”

“But it is safe.”

“Tha’s th’ problem. If thin’s seem safe on Fenris, probably means shit’s gonna go real wrong, yea? Better ta be in danger all th’ time then lulled inta this.”

“But the Custodes have finished their work to the embattlements. The retreat is more secure, and once Aevar and the tech-priests finish their defensive work, it will be the most secure residence on the planet, possibly the sector.”

“An’ I’m waitin’ for th’ shit ta go sideways,” Maeva said, patting her belly.

“Can…can this one…?”

“Fekke, stop askin’.” Maeva grabbed her hand and placed it on her large belly. Geist felt the warmth radiating from within her. She could feel the baby in her womb; she could even feel it kick. It was gentle, nearly gentle enough to miss, but it made her stop. Geist felt something in her stir, something powerful. But she couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Ya alright? Yer cryin’.”

“This one…she doesn’t know.” Geist wiped her eyes dry. “She is sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’,” Mavea grinned. “Yer doin’ fine. Pretty good considerin’ ya never seen a pregnant woman ‘fore.”

“This one never would have thought…are you okay?”

“Ugh. Just got a lurch in my gut,” Maeva said, grimacing a bit. “Damn. Tha’s a pain.”

“Did you eat something bad?”

“Oh, shit,” Maeva said. “I know wha’ this is. Can ya be a dear an’ call a hospitaller? Tell ‘em th’ baby’s comin’.”

“How can you tell?”

“My ma pushed enough babies outta her tha’ I know th’ signs. Fekke, there it is again.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar stormed through the retreat, Helfist and Croan at his heels. Legato had to run to keep up. Tomes and bones rattled from Katla’s head, shaking with every step. A few Sisters gave pause to the weapon he carried, as well as Croan’s own ebony broadsword.

“She in here?” He demanded.

“Peace, brother,” a hospitaller said. “We’re bringing her up as we speak.”

He pushed through a door, only to see Parsef standing with Lynia, clad in her armor, just in front of a hospital room.

“I was wondering if all Fenrisians stayed together,” Parsef said.

“We’re one big, happy family like that.”

“Quite so. I find it interesting that the Emperor’s Angels of Death would be so interested in seeing a life being born.”

“Life is full of surprises, is it not?” Croan said. “Please, Inquisitor, this is neither the time nor the place to start fight.”

The door behind them was pushed open, and a group of Hospitallers pushed a cot in. Aevar was surprised to see that Geist was walking with Maeva, and out of disguise to boot.

“Damn, it’s a party here, ain’t it?” Maeva said, breathing deeply. Sweat dotted her brow.

“How you doing?” Aevar asked.

“Eh, I’m alright, all thin’s bein’ equal.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“’Course it fuckin’ hurts!” She yelled. Maeva groaned as another contraction hit her. “But it ain’t ‘gettin’ my arm lopped off by a fuckin’ warboss’ hurt, so there’s that, yea?”

“It wasn’t a warboss that lopped your arm off,” Aevar said, doing his best to hide a grin.

“Oh, fekke off! Ya did this ta me, ya bastard!”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait outside,” a hospitaller said.

“Don’t die, I need your help,” Aevar said.

“So good ta know ya care,” Maeva snorted.

“Inquisitor…this one requests permission to accompany Maeva,” Geist said.

Maeva stared at the black-clad assassin, and Parsef gave her a questioning look.

“Go with her,” he said. “If the worst comes to pass, you know your duty.”

“You order, and this one obeys,” she bowed. The Sisters let her pass.

“’The worst comes to pass?’” Croan asked.

“We must be sure that she bears a healthy child,” Parsef said. “Besides, from my reports, the donor’s sperm was being carried through the warp. Who knows what would have happened to it during the transition?”

“This is a child,” Helfist growled.

“It is still a risk.”

“Lynia, can you please talk some sense into this madman?” Aevar demanded.

“Sadly, the Inquisitor brings up a good point,” she said with no small amount of pain in her voice. “We have no records that would prove that the child’s…unique conception would yield a normal, untainted human, especially given the degenerative nature of the warp.”

“Damn, you can be heartless. Good thing I already like you.”

“I take no pleasure in this, believe me.”

From the hospital room, Maeva grunted. Loudly.

“Will she be okay?” Legato asked.

“Of course. The Sisters Hospitaller will take excellent care of her,” Lynia said. “She’ll probably be offered something for the pain.”

“And she’ll probably turn it down,” Helfist said. “You don’t know our women.”

“Apparently, I don’t.”

Aevar shot Helfist a quick look.

 _“Run interference,”_ he whispered Juvik. Helfist nodded, and walked over to Lynia and Parsef.

“Damn, our women! Let me tell you…”

Aevar turned back to the two other priests, and began talking quietly in Binary.

 _“Legato, think this will pan out?”_ He asked, chattering away.

 _“I-I think so,”_ he replied, chattering back. _“The test was fully viable, and it_ was _able to gestate. I believe it should be a perfect human.”_

 _“That is good,”_ Croan said. Like his regular voice, his Binary was a deep rumble. _“If the child is born with obvious defects, we can never expect to leave this base.”_

Aevar peeked over Croan’s shoulder, looking through the hospital door’s window.

_“Don’t look now, but we got Custodes waiting for us on the other side.”_

_“They are probably waiting for the birth,”_ Croan said. _“I thought I saw a team of Grey Knight standing around outside. Parsef is pulling out all the stops for us.”_

 _“Well, let’s all hope this ends up well and good,_ ” Aevar said. _“Hate to make Geist go through with her duty.”_

He meandered over to Helfist, Lynia and Parsef.

“Well, getting enlightened in the ways of our women?” He asked.

“They seem quite ferocious,” Lynia smiled. “I’m glad to have met one.”

“Yea, they can be pretty intense,” Helfist said. “Good thing you only have _one_ here. Get too many of ‘em and they just might get the Sisters to—“

He never finished. Helfist’s eyes budged from his head, and his voice turned to a scream.

“Vermund? What’s happening?”

The Rune Priest fell to his knees, screaming and clutching at his head. Blood burst from his nose, eyes and mouth. He screamed so loud, Aevar nearly missed the screams coming from the hospital room.

“Sisters, we need Hospitallers here now,” Lynia snapped, taking charge. “Inquisitor, step back. You too, Legato. If he thrashes, he just might kill you. Aevar, Croan, can you keep his arms steady?”

“Vermund! Talk to me brother, what’s going on?” Aevar said, gripping his left arm, keeping it pinned to his side.

Helfist didn’t answer. His voice broke and gargled as blood welled in his mouth. A team of Hospitallers rushed in. One ran to him and shone a flashlight into his eye. She had to pull his head up to examine him; Vermund was completely unresponsive; he was one giant flexed, screaming muscle. “Pupils are dilated, blood vessels burst. This…I think this is warp sickness.”

“Bullshit its warp sickness,” Aevar said. “He ain’t a psyker, he’s a Rune Priest.”

“It doesn’t matter what he calls himself, it’s warp sickness. It’s possible that there might be a warp storm brewing, or…or something that’s causing a massive tear in the immaterium.”

“What did you do?” Parsef demanded, grabbing Aevar’s pauldron.

“What did _I_ do? I ain’t got a clue of what the shit is going on here,” he shot back.

“My team of Grey Knights are suffering from similar warp sickness,” he spat. “What foul tinkering have you done?!”

Aevar walked to the hallway. As the Inquisitor said, outside were a team of Grey Knights. They were all screaming, clutching at their heads as they rolled on the floor, blood leaking from their helms. Kemuel stood over them, his spear at the ready, but obviously unsure of what to do.

“What happened?”

“They just started screaming,” Kemuel said. “Are we under attack? Is the immaterium forcing its way in here?”

“Better fucking not. We’ve been putting up runes of warding since we got here. Hel, we got the Grey Knights to help us; this should be fucking warp-free. I’m checking on Maeva.”

He pushed the door open, just as the Sisters were coaching her through the birth.

“Breath and push, dear, breath and push.”

“Get th’ fuck out!” She yelled, grabbing the nearest thing she could find. Aevar ducked, and a tray of surgical tools narrowly missed his head.

“She’s fine,” he said, leaving the room. “How’s Helfist?”

Almost to answer him, the Rune Priest fell to the ground. His eyes were blank, pupils pin-points. His jaw was clenched shut and his entire body shook. Blood, and spit leaked from his mouth.

“He’s having a seizure,” the Sisters said. “Everybody back.”

“Should we hold him still?” Croan asked.

“No! You’ll only hurt him and yourself! Let it pass.”

Vermund thrashed, putting an armored foot through the wall. Now that he wasn’t screaming, everyone could hear Maeva yelling. It seemed like nearly forever, but then, suddenly, a baby’s scream replaced everything.

As if on cue, the seizure that gripped Vermund stopped. He lay on the ground, panting, still unconscious. The Hospitallers immediately descended on him, checking his pulse, mopping up the blood and pulling out smelling salts.

“What in the Emperor’s name was that?” Parsef demanded. The door opened, and more Sisters ran to the aid of the Grey Knights, and Kemuel stepped through.

“It appears that whatever warp sickness was gripping them has stopped,” the Custode said. He cocked his head to the side, hearing the baby’s screams. “Is…is the child born?”

“Custode, I demand that you end that abomination’s life,” Parsef snapped.

“You heartless bastard!” Croan stormed towards the Inquisitor, but Parsef held his ground. “Is butchering a child what they teach in the Inquisition?”

“We guard humanity from the terrors of the warp,” he spat. “And that…that _thing_ has nearly killed an entire team of Grey Knights, just with its birth pains!”

Four armored Sisters pushed their way into the waiting room, making the room seem to shrink.

“Canoness Lynia!”

“Now is not the time,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry, Canoness, but several Astropaths have died. It appears to be some kind of warp sickness,” the Sister Superior said. “We don’t know what caused it.”

“It’s that daemon-spawn in there,” Parsef spat. “That whore goes into labor, and every psyker we have falls prey to seizures!”

“Helfist ain’t a psyker.”

“It doesn’t matter! That monstrosity needs to die.”

Aevar drew Iounn from her holster, and unslung Katla.

“Try it,” he snarled. “You’ll have to go through me.”

“Me as well,” Croan said, drawing his obsidian broadsword.

“Traitors,” Parsef spat, drawing the pistol that sat on his hip. “Custode, they have chosen their own damnation. That creature needs to die! It is bad that a baby needs to die, yes, but it would be worse if such an abomination grew to maturity. If it can kill Astropaths and lay an entire team of Grey Knights low with just its birth pains, think of what it can do fully grown! We must end this here, for the better of the Imperium!”

Kemuel looked from the Inquisitor to the two marines. Legato cowered in the corner, a mere man against the super-humans.

“Canoness Lynia, I order you to bring your Sisters to bear,” Parsef demanded. “These traitors have to be dealt with.”

“I am many things, Inquisitor,” Lynia said, “but a child murderer, I am not.”

“What?!”

“I believe we are rushing to conclusions,” she said. “We need to examine the child and determine what its nature is, not to condemn it due to…odd circumstances of its birth.”

Parsef grabbed his vox-caster, keying the channel. “Sergeant Julas, do you read me?”

 _Loud and clear,_ the Ultramarine replied.

“I order you to bring your squad to the hospital wing. The Blasphemer has out-lived his usefulness.”

“Has he?” Lynia asked. “As I recall, the Fabricator-General has explicitly said that any manner of his death will be investigated. If it has been found that you have acted rashly, the Mechanicus will be…what were their words…? ‘We shall have words.’ If I may add my opinion, the Mechanicus will not mince words, and may retaliate against the Inquisition.”

Aevar shifted his stance, but a clear grin was growing on his face.

“How dare you? This is the fate of the Imperium!”

“I think I am doing you a favor, Parsef. Would you like the entire Inquisition, nay, the entire Imperium, to suddenly fall out of favor with the Cult of Mars?”

“Custode Kemuel! Do your duty!”

“I agree with the Canoness,” he said. “While I am a simple bodyguard, I speak with the authority of the Emperor of Mankind himself; I cannot be ordered by you. With the agreement brokered between my Custode brothers and the High Lords of Terra, you can be given _suggestions_ , but not orders. And as of now, I see no immediate threat, neither to the Emperor nor to the Imperium.”

The doors to the hospital room opened, and Maeva was wheeled out. She was propped up on pillows, sweat making her gown cling to her. In her arms, sucking at her breast, was a simple babe. The Sisters Hospitallers were all smiles, and even Geist seemed to be at ease, unaware of Parsef’s outburst.

“It’s a girl,” she grinned. “A perfect lil’ girl.”

“Geist,” Parsef said.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Aevar spat.

“That thing is an abomination. I order you to destroy it.”

“Wha’?” Maeva looked up, confused. Just behind her shoulder, the black-clad woman stiffened, as if she was hit by lightning.

“What are you waiting for, assassin? I gave you an order! Kill that thing!”

“Geist, please,” Croan begged. “Do not listen to him.”

Maeva turned to Geist, fear in her eyes.

“Geist, please,” she begged. “She’s just a babe.”

The assassin said something, but it was a mumble. Maeva stared at her, the only one to hear it.

“I order you!”

“This one…cannot…”

Parsef stared at Geist, mouth hanging open.

“That is an order, _assassin_. Carry out your order.”

“This one cannot.” Geist spoke as if she was in physical pain, like she was tearing off her own arm.

“Parsef, please, you let your duty get the best of you,” Lynia said. “It’s a child, it can do no wrong.”

“A child born of ejaculate that has traveled through the warp!”

“Then she’ll be examined,” Lynia said. “Once the Grey Knights have recovered, they can examine her all you want.”

“You can’t give me orders, Canoness. I speak with the authority of the Inquisition!”

Parsef nearly jumped out of his skin when Helfist reached up from the floor.

“Please,” he gasped. Blood, snot and spittle covered his face, the blood more so than anything else, drying a dirty brown. “It’s a baby. Have some humanity.”

 _Inquisitor,_ the vox rang out. _You have not given the command. What is the order, Inquisitor?_

“Get up here, Julas,” he growled. “Watch over the wolves as we examine this…monstrosity.”

_The wolves are following us._

“Then keep them all under guard!” He snapped.

From the hallway, a Grey Knight staggered in, falling to the ground. A group of attending Sister Hosplitars were trying to keep him down if only for his own safety, but the Knight ignored them.

“Inquisitor,” he croaked. The Knight pulled his helm off. Every time he spoke, he spat blood everywhere. “There was a, a great power.”

“The man’s delirious,” a hosplitar said. “He must lay down.”

“But there was…there was a burst of power,” the Knight said. “Almost as if, almost—“

“Like we were staring into the sun.” Both the Knight and Helfist spoke at the same time.

“Aye, so much fucking power,” the Rune Priest mumbled. “All around us, forcing its way in here.”

“It was like a soul binding,” the Knight sputtered. “As if the Emperor was trying to pour all of his might into something, instead of cauterizing a psyker from the pull of the warp. Almost like a possession…”

“I will need to interview the rest of the Grey Knights,” Parsef said. “Geist, get over here. _Now_.”

“Please, Inquisitor, calm yourself,” Lynia said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This is the birth of a child. We should be celebrating.”

“And let the wolves spirit that thing away at the earliest convenience?”

“It is a fair point,” Lynia said. She turned to Aevar. “You and your brothers will have to leave the hospital, at least for the next few days.”

“Aye, I understand,” Aevar said. He slung Katla back onto his back. “Glad we didn’t have to come to blows.”

“A wolf, turning down a fight?” Kemuel mused.

“Ain’t no shame in admitting I’d get pummeled. Don’t want to end up like poor Helfist after his bout with you.”

“Fuck you, greybeard,” the Rune Priest groaned.

“Just want to make sure my kaerl is doing well.”

“You will not approach--!”

“Go right ahead,” Lynia said. “But keep it quick.”

Aevar bowed to her and walked over to Maeva. He switched to Juvik.

_“You doing alright?”_

_“Fuckin’ scared,”_ she replied. _“W-would Geist have…?”_

 _“She_ should _have, but she didn’t.”_ Maeva stared straight ahead, as if she was reliving the moment both her life and the life of her babe had was nearly ended. _“What did Geist say to you? When she refused her order?”_

_“She said, ‘Fer you, anythin’.’”_

“Time’s up,” Parsef snapped. “Step away from the abomination.”

“Whatever you do,” Aevar said in loud High Gothic, “don’t make him the godfather.”

Croan laughed, taking Legato with him as they left. Kemuel walked forward, towering above Maeva. She swallowed, but glared up at him.

“Worry not, I do not plan on killing anyone as of now.”

“Yea, but wha ‘bout a few minutes from now, eh?”

“We shall see.”

 

* * *

 

Geist’s heart was slamming in her chest as she followed Parsef back to his chambers. Oh, holy Emperor, what did she do? She had her orders, her sacred orders, her blessed, infallible orders.

And she ignored them.

But she had to. Parsef wanted to kill Maeva’s baby, the very same baby that she felt growing in her belly, the one she helped bring into the world, the one she held for the briefest of seconds before reuniting her with her mother.

Her conditioning was destroying her. She never disobeyed orders. Never in the history of Krieg had a soldier disobeyed orders, not since the Purge all those millennia ago when they turned from the Emperor’s light.

Oh, holy Emperor, what did she do?

Parsef would kill her, execute her for challenging his rule. Or he would send her away; she was still a Callidus assassin, she would surely have her uses.

Either prospect shook her to the core. She wanted to see Maeva, hold her, hold her baby, watch it grow. By the Throne, where were these feelings coming from? If Parsef ordered her, she would obey. Such was the way of Krieg.

But she disobeyed his order. She disobeyed it.

“In. Now,” he snarled.

Would he punish her? Oh, holy Emperor, she should have just listened, but she couldn’t.

The door was slammed behind her.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Parsef demanded. “We could have ended that abysmal thing’s life before it caused any more problems for us. Why did you disobey me?”

“T-this one…”

“Give me a good reason,” he said, “one good damn reason to not send you on a suicide mission to the Eye of Terror itself! I cannot have a simple, damn assassin questioning my will!!”

He couldn’t know the truth. Geist didn’t know the truth herself. Heart pounding, head spinning, she suddenly knew what would please Parsef, and keep her close to Maeva and her baby.

“This one did it to better her cover.”

“Please, _assassin_ , enlighten me,” he snarled. “How does this ‘better your cover?’”

“Despite her best work to infiltrate the group, she was treated like an outsider,” Geist said, lying through her teeth. “The Fenrisians never grew fond of her. This one saw an opportunity to better her cover by opposing you. By opposing you, this one hopes that they will see her as a trustworthy ally, not a potential mole.”

Parsef glared at her, but Geist could see him thinking.

“Yes, that would make sense,” he finally said. “They hate the Inquisition with a near heretical passion. Of course they’d be slow to trust you, even after over five years.”

Geist realized that this was the first time in her life that she had to lie to the Inquisition. That was heresy, or near heresy enough to warrant an execution. She felt light-headed, that she would pass out at any second.

“The Wolves see us bickering, and they’ll think that you can’t be too bad,” Parsef continued in a deep recline. “And when we’re close to the child--”

Geist held her breath

“—By the God-Emperor, I almost killed a baby,” Parsef said, his voice breaking. “This fucking mysterious child…bad to kill it, but would it truly be worse…? I’m _not_ one of those blood simple brutes. I’m not, am I…?”

Parsef looked at his hands, the very one which held his pistol. The very ones which nearly ended Maeva’s life and that of her baby. He was suddenly realizing that his hands were shaking.

“Bad or fucking worse,” he mumbled. He fell back into his chair. Tears dotted his eyes. “Throne, to think of what I almost did…Good work, Geist. And, and thank you. For stopping me.”

“T-this one lives to serve.” But she didn’t serve him. If she served him, she wouldn’t hesitate to follow his orders. If she served him, she wouldn’t lie to him. Her conditioning was clear: the servant _never_ disobeys the master.

But if she didn’t serve Parsef, who did she serve…?

 

* * *

 

Kemuel stood at attention, a brother Custode standing by his side. The hospital lobby seemed small with them in full armor. The door opened, and Canoness Lynia entered, flanked by two Sisters.

“How does the testing?” Lynia asked.

“I do not know,” Kemuel said. “The Grey Knights have been slow to come to their senses.”

“This disturbance _has_ killed several Astropaths,” Lynia said. “I’d treat this with caution too. How’s the new mother doing?”

“She has been her usual feisty self. The assassin has arrived, as well.”

“Parsef really wants to make sure that babe does not open a portal to the Warp.”

“Actually, Parsef did not give the assassin his blessings to arrive. Even if he did, can you blame him?”

“Not at all. But a child…it puts us in an interesting spot, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kemuel said, “yes it does.”

The door to the hospital opened, and all ten Space Wolves entered, plus Aevar and a recovered Helfist. They all carried things in their arms, but kept their weapons slung. Kemuel couldn’t make out what they carried.

“What brings you here, Astartes?” Kemuel asked. “Looking to take your kaerl from us?”

“Hardly,” Aevar said. “We come bearing gifts.”

Aevar held up the item in his hand. He shook it out, and metal fell into place, dangling from a central point. Charms hung from fine, silver-like arms, showing a wolf pup, a double-headed eagle, an axe and shield.

“Is that…a mobile?” Lynia asked. “For a baby?”

“ _I_ sure as Hel don’t need one.”

“And you’re _giving_ that to the baby?”

“Where we come from, we give gifts, we don’t hold onto them.”

“Are my eyes deceiving me?” Kemuel asked.

The wolves each showed what they were carrying. Some held beautifully crafted wooden weapons; baby-sized of course. Others held up knitted blankets; one was even quilted. A few held smooth, leather masks, others what appeared to be booties and small, woolen baby clothes. Helfist himself held up a small stuffed wolf pup.

“You made that?” Lynia asked.

“Crocheted it myself,” the red-haired Rune Priest beamed with pride.

“You crochet,” Kemuel said, voice full of disbelief.

“Do you not?” Vermund said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why, in the name of all that is good and right with the Golden Throne, would an Emperor’s Chosen Angel of Death _ever_ need to crochet?”

“’Cus Fenris is fucking cold, and despite what you think of us Fenrisians, we actually _don’t_ like freezing our balls off,” Helfist said. “Out there on the ice, you gotta stay warm, and there aren’t any requisition points you can go to. You have to make everything by yourself.”

“It looks like you have practice making crochet dolls.”

“I learned from my father. He helped me make some when I had two young ones, back out on the ice,” he said. A few Claws lowered their heads, undoubtedly thinking of their own little ones they left.

“You had children?” Lynia asked.

“We were mortal before we were Sky Warriors, just like how you weren’t always a Canoness,” Vermund laughed. “I loved ‘em more than anything. But when the Sky Warriors call, when the gods come knocking, you have to answer.”

“So you all just sat down and made all these…baby shower gifts,” Lynia said.

“It takes a village to raise a child, so we figured we’d do our part. Besides, have you seen a pack of Thunderwolves when pups are born? Every wolf pitches in, playing with the pups, hunting for them and protecting them. They’re part of the family, and they all have their part to play.”

The door slid open, and Croan the Salamander walked in.

“I see that I am late,” he said.

“Na, just got here a second ago,” Aevar said. “What did you bring, brother?”

Croan held up another mobile. The charms on his mobile were of a hammer, many cute, doll-like salamanders and wyverns and a few anvils.

“Late to the party, brother,” Aevar laughed showing his off.

“Dammit all, we should have planned what we were making.”

“Na, we’ll just put them all together, make one big mobile for the little brat.”

“First the wolves, now the Salamander,” Kemuel said, shaking his head. “Truly, the universe is full of strange things.”

“Us Salamanders have always prided ourselves with being close to the natives of Nocturne, as well as the citizens of the Imperium,” Croan said. “We mingle with the citizens, offer help to those who need it, and even offer our services as masters of the forge. There have been plenty of times where I have delayed weapon maintenance to re-build a farming combine, or re-shoe horses. I have even made plenty of toys for tots in the past; I find that it helps clear my mind.”

“We have to step up our game, Sisters,” Lynia said. “Otherwise, the Wolves and the Salamanders will prove that they’re better hosts than we are. I have to ask, though: why the leather masks?”

“To scare away the malefactorum,” the Claws answered.

“Fenrisian tradition,” Aevar shrugged. “We need to break the evils of the warp, crush them, utterly destroy them, show them true fear, and teach them to never haunt us again.”

“Well, we’ll need to think of suitable gifts to give to the new mother and her child. Maybe some illustrated prayer books…? Come, Sisters, we’ll have to plan this out.”

“Can we give the child her gifts?” Aevar asked.

“Sadly, we are under strict orders not to allow you near neither Maeva nor the child,” Kemuel said.

“Didn’t you say that Parsef couldn’t order you around?”

“It was either this, or Parsef would be killing the child.”

“Even the mighty Custodes hate killing babies, don’t they?”

“It takes a special kind of heartless to kill a babe. If one were to truly relish their ability to do so, then they have already surrendered their souls to the abyss of the warp.”

 

* * *

 

The doors to the workshop opened, and Aevar, Croan and Helfist entered.

“How was the new mother?” Legato asked, looking up from the logic-board he was working on.

“Don’t know,” Aevar shrugged. “Kemuel wouldn’t let us near them.”

“But we were able to give them our presents, so that’s good,” Helfist said. “Come on, greybeard, that’s a win right there.”

“It would be nice to see the babe grow, as well,” Croan said. “It has been too long since we have seen a child.”

“Do all Salamanders fawn over children?” Legato asked.

“As much as wolves fawn over pups.”

“So all the damn time, eh?” Aevar asked, a chuckle at his throat.

“That was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but now I have to ask: wolves like pups?”

“Of course! They’re members of the pack,” Helfist said. “Being mindless, insane monstrous creatures isn’t good for anyone. If all they did was fight, then who’d carry on the pack when they were gone?”

“You wolves certainly are strange,” Legato said, shaking his head.

There was a pounding at the door. Aevar sighed and walked back to the door.

“Well, _this_ is a surprise,” he said, a hard line in his voice.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Quite the contrary,” Aevar said. “Have you found out what happened back there?”

Legato looked up. Surely his ears were deceiving him. He peered around Aevar’s armored form, but sure enough, Inquisitor Parsef was standing there. Helfist and Croan looked up, and seeing who it was, they walked towards the door. The Inquisitor seemed disheveled. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were red, almost as if he was crying.

“They Grey Knights say the same thing as Helfist,” Parsef mumbled. “They say it was like the Emperor was here, trying to burn away corruption, or impart a piece of himself onto a psyker. But a massive piece of Himself; maybe He was trying to put all of Himself onto someone, perhaps He was trying to put His radiance into the baby.”

“Damn strange,” Aevar said. Both he and the Inquisitor stood there, looking at each other, waiting for someone to say something. “Alright, I’ll bite. What are you really here for?”

“I wanted,” Parsef talked as if he was biting off his tongue. “To give you an apology.”

Several seconds of silence passed as everyone stared at the Inquisitor.

“What?” Aevar finally said.

“I said, I wanted to give you my apology.”

“For what?”

“For questioning your loyalty, and…and for threatening to kill the babe,” he said, eyes turning towards the ground. “I have been unreasonably harsh in my criticisms of you, because of the history your Chapter has with us.”

“And what the fuck prompted this?”

“Maeva and her babe have just finished the Grey Knight’s tests: they’re clean.”

“Did the Emperor ‘put himself’ into Maeva’s baby?”

“It seems like He tried, but the baby doesn’t show any signs of containing the Emperor. One Knight even theorized it was a failed possession attempt.”

“Fucking weird. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m curious; what brought this whole ‘apology’ thing on?” Aevar asked.

“The Inquisition is supposed to follow the facts, uncovers the truth,” Parsef said. “Having been watching your every move for over five years, passing every test, showing no signs of corruption, the facts lead me to a conclusion that I rejected.

“When I received the Grey Knight’s reports, I cursed them; it was then that I realized that I was not following the facts, but my own desires. I _wanted_ to find you guilty, I _wanted_ to declare you traitors. I’ve been ignoring the facts, trying to support _my_ reality, not the truth. I was so blinded by this need to prove you wrong, I very nearly ordered the death of a newborn baby.”

“So…you’re here to apologize for trying to find fault with us, that right?” Aevar growled.

“I am,” Parsef said. “Do you wish to rub this in my face as well? Proof that the Space Wolves are beyond reproach?”

“Fekke no, I’m pissed.”

“…I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Dammit, Parsef, I _really_ hate you now,” Aevar cursed. Now it was Ironclaws who was grinding his teeth. “Fucking damn you, being the bigger man. You had to come here to bury the hatchet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, what does this mean?” Croan asked, obviously just as puzzled as the Inquisitor.

“It means you just made us look like sniveling, whiny children,” Helfist spat. “Carrying grudges when there are other, worthier foes to face.”

“And you hate me for that?”

“You made us look bad for carrying on this damned vendetta,” Aevar snapped.

“Then I made the right choice,” Parsef said, a grin creeping at the edges of his lips.

“Yea, you did,” Aevar said. “Damn you, Parsef, you got us good on this. But we’ll get you back.”

“How so?”

“By being the ones who never bring this back up,” Helfist said. “We’ll be more polite than you sorry fucks.”

“I look forward to that day,” Parsef said. “Just hold the Emperor in your heart, and I will remain as cordial as you are.”

“Yea, yea, get out of here,” Aevar mumbled. “I’m getting tired looking at your ‘holier-than-thou’ smug face.”

“And…should I lose my temper like I did when I nearly killed that baby, could you stop me?”

Aevar was about to slam the door in Parsef’s face, but he stopped.

“Aye, we’ll stop you,” he said. “And you need to keep us in line, should a daemon try to fuck us.”

“My thanks,” the Inquisitor said. He closed the door for Aevar, who went back to fuming.

“Let me understand this: by proving his maturity, Parsef has proved that he was better than you?” Croan asked.

“That’s the thrust of it,” Helfist said.

“You’re truly a prideful bunch,” Legato laughed.

“Pride? I believe ‘hubris’ would be a better description,” Croan said. “You need to be better then everyone, even being more ‘mature’ then all else.”

“Perhaps. Then shall we expect to see a war of politeness between the two of your?”

“Aye, that’ll be right. We’ll show him just how ‘mature’ we can be.”

“I wonder: is it possible to kill by politeness?” Croan mused.

“Damned if we don’t try.”

 

* * *

 

Geist hesitantly, fitfully, held Helfist’s stuffed wolf doll in her hands. Even in her Sister disguise, she looked painfully awkward.

“This one doesn’t know what to do.”

“Aw, yer killin’ me, Geist,” Maeva laughed, bouncing her daughter on her lap as she sat in her wheelchair. “Play with it fer her. She won’t bite.”

The assassin fitfully held out the doll. The baby laughed, reaching out for it and grasping it. She had wisps of black hair sprouting from her head, deep eyes that sparkled with gold and a wide smile. Her skin was darker than Maeva’s, closer to a light mocha than anything else.

“She has a strong grip,” Geist said, tugging at the doll. The baby laughed, tugging back.

“Quit testin’ her, she’s been through enough.”

“This one is sorry. She…children are new to her.”

The baby cooed as Geist bounced the doll in front of her.

“First time for everythin.’ I remember when my ma popped out her new husband’s kids. Couldn’t have been more ‘n ten at th’ time. With all th’ cryin’ an’ shittin’, I never knew what ta do.”

“Was the new father helpful?”

“Fekke yea he was. We take care a kids, yea? Part a th’ tribe, part a th’ family. If he was a scumbag, he’d be chased off right quick. Hel, he was even a good pa ta me; didn’t mind callin’ him ‘Pa’ after a while.”

“This one is happy to hear that,” Geist smiled. “Have you thought of a name to give your daughter?”

“Shit, I’ve been thinkin’ a names fer th’ last four great months, even thinkin’ a boy’s name if she came out different. Haven’t found one ta my likin’,” Maeva said. “What kinda names they got on Krieg?”

“Why do you ask?”

“All the names th’ Sisters give me are too…showy. Too regal, like she’s suppose ta be a chieftain’s daughter ‘r somethin’. She needs a good, solid name, nothin’ showy ‘r too fancy. An’ ‘side from it bein’ a death world, I know shit ‘bout Krieg, so might as well see whaa kinda names ya got at home.”

“This one was given the name ‘Geist’ when she was chosen to be an assassin. Many Kriegers only get ‘true’ names once they reach a certain rank. As she has been told, our birth name are too complicated to say.”

“’Geist’ ain’t yer name? Wha’ is it, then?”

“Krieger Female Model 77e #51387.”

“…Yea, think I’m gonna stay away from those names. Sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize. This one knows that the traditions of Krieg are vastly different from the rest of the Imperium. But this one would greatly appreciate it if you continued to call her ‘Geist.’”

“I wouldn’t call ya anythin’ else. Well, wha’ other names ya know?”

Maeva bounced the baby on her knee while Geist thought. Maeva bared a breast, feeding her daughter.

“Laura,” the assassin said.

“Laura?”

“Yes. When this one was selected to be an assassin, she was selected by Inquisitor Laura Kinney. The Inquisitor was the first non-Krieg woman that she has encountered, and had shown compassion towards her.”

“’Laura.’ I like it,” Maeva smiled. “Hear tha’, Laura? Ya got a name now.”

Laura cooed, suckling at her breast.

“Come on, let’s take ya ta see th’ Sisters. An’ get a treat while we’re at it. Wha’ do ya say, Geist? Think we can get somethin’ from th’ kitchen?”

“The Sister Superior who oversees the kitchen is very stringent.”

“Let’s give it a shot, yea? I’m hungry, an’ who’d say ‘no’ ta Laura?”

Just looking at the gleeful baby made Geist feel warm and…and something. Something she’d only felt when with Maeva.

“Do you need a push?”

“Yea, tha’d be nice. Little Laura here ain’t so little when yer pushin’ her out from ‘tween yer legs, I’ll tell ya tha’ much. I’m just glad th’ Grey Knights let me stay in my bed an’ wheelchair durin’ th’ testin’.”

“They were thorough, but this one can tell that they were gentle.” Geist stood, and pushed Maeva out the door. “This one is glad that she passed their tests.”

“ _Yer_ glad?” Maeva laughed. “How’d ya think I felt?!”

Geist wheeled her into the kitchen, and she entered her Sister persona.

“Greetings, Sisters,” Geist said, the polymorph drug changing the pitch of her voice. “Do we have anything for the recovering mother and the new child?”

The Sisters who were cooking immediately converged on the smiling Laura.

“She passed the tests, then,” they said. “Aw, that’s so good. How is she?”

“A beautiful lil’ bundle a joy,” Maeva said. Laura had stopped feeding, so Maeva turned her around to show to the cooing Sisters. “Though I could use a little snack.”

“Emperor dammit, why does everyone think we can just hand out food if they ask nicely enough?” The Sister Superior hissed, jabbing a butcher knife into the wooden chopping block. The Sisters who were fawning over Laura suddenly stood ramrod straight, attentive to their duties. “As long as I’m in this kitchen, we stick to the rules, dammit.”

“Come on, pushin’ babies from ya gives ya a hunger,” Maeva protested. “An’ Laura might want somethin’ special, too.”

“You got breasts, don’t you? Put ‘em to good use,” the Sister Superior said.

“Morkai’s balls, fine, we’ll get out of yer precious kitchen,” she mumbled. “Come on, let’s go.”

Geist was beginning to wheel her out when the Sister Superior blocked their path at the door.

“If I ever catch you coming around here, begging for scraps, it’ll be the last thing you do,” she said with a snarl. But at the same time, she handed Maeva a wrapped sandwich that smelled of a heavenly blend of cooked meat and spices. “And while you’re at it, get those fucking Wolves to stop hitting on the Sisters on duty.”

“Hey, I got as much say-so over ‘em as th’ rest of th’ marines,” Maeva said, taking the food.

“Tell them anyways,” the old Superior snapped. But looking at her, there was a slight twinkle in here eye. “ _No one_ gets extra food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Maeva said, throwing up a mock salute. “Come on, Laura, let’s get some spoils elsewhere.”

Geist pushed her out of the kitchen, down the stone hallway.

“The Sister Superior appears to have a soft spot for babies,” she said.

“Lots a people do,” Maeva said, tearing into the sandwich. “’Sides, she’s a baby. It’s not like she’s gonna grow up ta be a big, bad, galaxy-killin’ monster, yea?”


	22. A Simple Plan

Helfist sprinted around the corner, his armored boots fighting for every bit of friction they could muster, his tomes and necklaces rattling wildly. His armored boots bit into the stone floor, tearing up bits as they worked for their grip. Dammit all, he thought he had the monster. But the damned thing was tricky; it knew his every move. His hunt went from a guaranteed kill to having the tables nearly be turned on him. He pumped his arms, regaining the speed he lost with the corner.

For the love of Russ, where _was_ that beast? He sniffed at the air, trying to pick up the slightest sent that could lead him to the fucking beast.

The Sisters and the execution squad of marines were useless. They knew their way around the retreat-turned forge city, yes, but they couldn’t find his prey. Croan was good, but too slow. He was working his way around the rapidly growing machine-city the only way he knew how; the slow, tried and true method of Nocturne. They needed to find the Throne-damn spawn, and they needed to find it _now_.

Dammit all, he should have found that beast already. If he knew what that thing would grow into he would have done something about it five years ago when it dropped from Maeva’s legs. He had tried to scry for the monster, to see the soul of his prey with his druid powers, but the damned thing had found a way to block it; despite his best efforts, it was utterly invisible to him. No one should have the power to block their soul from appearing to a druid, no one.

A wisp of a fragrance danced across his nose. He could not rely on his druid powers, but every living thing left a physical trace, and he had just found the monster’s.

“Got you,” he snarled, changing directions yet again. It was coming from the library that Legato helped put together. He sprinted, his secondary heart pounding at a fast, but steady, rate. He was attuned to his true nature, the true nature of every Son of Russ; the nature of the hunter, of the killer, of slaughter incarnate. He would find the beast, and he would have his victory.

He plowed through the door to the library, sending the massive wooden doors crashing open. His eyes drunk the scene before him, processing everything in a second.

The library was huge, twenty meters wide, thirty tall, and nearly a hundred deep. Legato wanted to make a true library, one that would rival any true forge world. While it was massive, grand and regal with polish brass and wooden furniture, it was comparatively empty thanks to the system he and Ironclaws had; Aevar blindly threw shit together, and Legato tried to figure out how it worked. ‘Tried’ being the operative word; not even old man Ironclaws knew what he was doing.

Helfist spun, looking from left to right, searching high and low for his prey. He was moving so fast, he nearly missed seeing Kemuel catch the door in his gauntleted hand.

“Wait, Kemuel…?”

What was the Custode doing here? The library was empty; there wasn’t even a tech-priest there. That could only mean…

“Oh, shit.”

He was no longer the hunter.

Helfist turned, just as a shadow fell across his face. The monster had caught him.

“Got you!” Laura laughed, her muted-gold eyes sparkling. She had jumped from a bookshelf and landed on his chest, wrapping her five-year old arms around his neck.

“Ga! I’m undone!” Helfist gasped, spinning around playfully. Laura held on tight, laughing all the while, but he made sure not to move too fast, lest he break her grasp. “The fell beast has caught me. Augh, I’m dying, dying!”

Laura pounded her little fists against his armor, and he dramatically fell to the ground.

“Unhand me, monster! Augh!”

Footsteps thundered behind him, and Croan finally caught up to him.

“No, brother,” he gasped. “The beast has claimed yet another victim!”

“I got him, Uncle Croan,” Laura laughed as she pounded on his armor with her free hand. In her other, she held his stuffed wolf pup. She carried it everywhere. “I killed him!”

“Remember me, brother,” Helfist gasped, pretending to die. “Remember my memory, and avenge me…”

“Against such a beast? What could I ever do?”

“Join me,” Laura laughed, standing triumphantly on Helfist’s chest, “and we’ll make the galaxy fear us!”

“You have hunted a Space Wolf, bested him at his own game; truly you are a foe to be wary of.” He knelt, offering his hand. “Yes, I will join you, if you will have me.”

“Traitor,” Helfist spat. “You throw my memory aside so easily?”

“Against such a beast? What choice do I have?” Croan laughed. He picked Laura up and spun her around. The girl laughed, her long black hair and dress spinning wildly.

“I get Uncle Croan on my side! I get Uncle Croan on my side!”

A taciturn groan from the entrance to the library got their attention. Julas stood in the doorway, glaring at them. As per usual, he was fully suited in his armor, impeccable in every way, save the bags that hung under his eyes. It was like the man never had a good night’s sleep.

“A disgrace,” Julas muttered, shaking his head. “A disgrace before the Emperor.”

“Oh, come on, Julas, we’re just playing with Laura,” Helfist said from the ground.

“Hi, Uncle-Sergeant Julas,” Laura said as Croan set her down. She was so tiny, she barely came up past his knees. She held onto her stuffed pup, but hid it behind her back as she straightened her dress.

“She needs to have discipline drilled into her,” Julas said. “She needs to be prepared to join the ranks of the Imperium.”

“She’s a child, doing what children do best,” Helfist said. He brought himself to kneel by Laura, so he could give her a pat on the back as encouragement. She was staring down Julas, and needed all the support she could get. “Trust me, I had two little ones; they need to play. Didn’t you have any children when you were still mortal?”

“No,” Julas snapped. “And Kemuel, do you feel that you should be quiet when you see such disgraceful behavior?”

“I am a bodyguard; nothing more, nothing less,” the Custode said, gracefully dodging the question.

“Just let her have a childhood,” Helfist said.

“She needs to be taught discipline, honor and duty!”

“We got the honor part down, brother,” Croan said. “There is plenty of time for duty and order when she is of age.”

“And she needs to begin training for that day _now_ ,” Julas said. He shook his head. “Of all the corners of the endless galaxy, I had to be assigned to this one. Let me face the countless horrors of the Tyranid swarm, let me stare down the neigh-deathless gaze of the mechanical horrors of the Necrons, place me in the bowls of the blood-soaked field of death of a city under siege from the arch-enemy, _anything_ but having to play the sitter of babes…!”

Julas began to go on his usual rant and raving. Laura might be five years old, but she knew the rant well. Vermund tapped Laura’s shoulder. He puffed out his cheeks, pretending to be Julas babbling on.

Laura nearly broke out laughing, but bite her tongue. She hid her grin behind her stuffed doll that he made her.

Croan nudged her, and she looked up to him. He crossed his eyes and made a ‘jabbering’ motion with his hand, mocking Julas in his own way. Poor Laura had to really hide behind her stuffed pup to stop from cracking up.

“…have sent me to the very antipodes of the galaxy, but I was sent _here_ ,” Julas continued. Laura couldn’t take any more. She finally cracked up, breaking a sharp peel of laughter.

In a half-second, Julas was glaring at them. In a half-second, Helfist and Croan had dropped their act, and were returning Julas’ gaze with neutral expressions.

The Ultramarine glared at them.

“Vermund, do not lay on the ground,” he finally said. “It is unbecoming of one of your stature.”

“Don’t tempt me to do anything _real_ immature,” he smiled from the floor.

“Brother Croan, please try to remain focused on your latest project. I do not know what the Blasphemer is up to, but please do remain on task and continue your work for the Mechanicus.”

“You preach to the choir, brother,” the Salamander said. “This is merely a work break.”

“And you,” Julas said, turning to Laura. “We need to continue your lessons.”

“Why are you sad?” She asked. “Is it because you’re always tired?”

“Sad? Who said that I was sad?” Julas sputtered. “Or tired?”

“Revelation,” the little girl said, holding the stuffed wolf pup up. Helfist nudged her leg; Julas hated hearing about Revelation.

“We live in the darkest time imaginable,” he began. “We do not have the luxury of having ‘imaginary friends.’”

“I’m sorry, Uncle-Sergeant Julas,” Laura said, baring her neck. She knew when the battle was lost.

“You require discipline,” he said. “Go back to your room. We shall begin your next lesson in an hour’s time.”

“In an hour? Come on, Julas, we got our rotation guards coming in today,” Helfist said. “Let her see the guards change. Hel, let her meet her new guards. You must know how lonely this place can be for a child. It would be good to see the faces of the new five-year guards.”

Julas seemed to glare at him, then relented.

“True, there are not a lot of faces for a child to relate to,” he said. “I have gotten too carried away in my duties of educating the girl. I shall have to attend to my duties as Master of the Guard and welcome the replacements into the fold. Count yourself fortunate, Laura. Your lessons shall be postponed until tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Uncle-Sergeant Julas,” she said, curtsying.

“It is Sergeant Julas,” he snapped.

“Thank you, Sergeant-Julas.”

“Much better. You two, find your honor and meet us for the replacements.”

Julas turned on his heel and stormed away.

“Typical Ultramarine,” Helfist sighed, standing up. “’Duty’ this and ‘honor’ that, all the damn time.”

“His Chapter is the builders of Empires,” Kemuel said, breaking his silence from the corner of the room. “Can you fault him for doing what is only natural to him?”

“Revelation feels you’re right, Uncle Kemuel,” Laura said. “He doesn’t want me to be mad at Uncle-Sergeant Julas.”

“This Revelation is a smart fellow,” Kemuel said with a smile in his voice. “What does he think of me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do not?”

“He doesn’t feel anything about you,” Laura said, shaking her head.

“Now why is that?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Sometimes he feels things, sometimes he doesn’t.”

“Well, if Revelation has helped you this far, he must be a pretty good fellow,” Helfist said. “Hel, I made him, so I know he’s good.”

“You didn’t make Revelation, Uncle Helfist,” Laura giggled, hugging the doll tight. “He’s always been here.”

“Silly me, of course he has!” Helfist smiled. “Come on, let’s get you back to your ma until the new blood arrives.”

“Can I ride on Uncle Kemuel’s shoulders?” Laura beamed.

“Is there something wrong with the piggy back rides _I_ give?”

“But Uncle Kemuel is taller.”

Helfist and Croan turned to the Custode.

“It will be a pleasure to give her a ‘piggy back ride,’” Kemuel said, bowing.

“Someone is taking a liking to babysitting,” Croan laughed.

“It is oddly growing on me,” Kemuel said. “Much to the chagrin of my Custode brothers.”

 Kemuel mag-locked his spear to his back, and gingerly picked Laura up, who laughed as she sat atop the Custode’s lofty shoulders. Together, they left the library, making their way to the forge world that Aevar was building.

“That child,” Croan said. “Helfist, what do you think she meant, ‘that Revelation was always there?’ Or that Julas was sad and tired?”

“She’s a child, Croan. Most of the time, nothing they say makes sense. But every so often, they say something profoundly wise,” he said. “Come, let’s enjoy having a little Laura while she’s still little.”

“It never ceases to surprise me: to think that wolves make such good parents.”

“Every Thunderwolf in the pack helps raise the young. You should see them play in the spring,” Helfist smiled. “We might be born killers on a death world, but we like seeing the signs of life, too. That, and I can’t help but think of my own little ones every time I see Laura. But a _am_ surprised that Kemuel is making such a great uncle.”

“Guard duty is little different from babysitting,” Kemuel said. “Only my mark is much more energetic. Such energy is infectious.”

As they made their way through the former retreat, they passed Sisters of Battle. Seeing Laura atop Kemuel’s shoulders, they couldn’t help but smile and laugh. As they got closer to the ever-expanding forge center, the sounds of metal kissing metal grew, as did the temperature and presences of gaggles of tech-priests.

The red-robed, barely-human priests stood by, examining freshly-forged relics or reading text, chattering away in Binary. Croan probably understood them, but Helfist paid them no heed.

Eventually they made it to the massive doors that held the central forge. The entire forge-city was growing, cutting deeper and deeper into the bedrock of the mountain, but the doors remained the same. They weren’t replaced because three Land Raiders could pass through them with room to spare.

“Looks like the Mechanicus is getting more comfortable with greybeard’s ‘vile blasphemies,” Helfist said as he was forced out of the way of a Kataphron Destroyer. No matter how many of the damned things he saw, they always found a way to get under his skin. The Mechanicus took a servitor, cut its legs off, put it on massive tank treads, and bolted some of the biggest guns they could find to its arms.

“A few blasphemies and the Mechanicus will hate you,” Croan said. “But show them daemon-free ‘relics’ and make improvements to weapons and armor, and the Mechanicus will love you. There are even whisperings that Aevar might be getting approval to create a new battleship.”

“Damn. They’re getting antsy to see what kind of earth-shakers Ironclaws can come up with?”

“Perhaps, but I believe it is simply an easier way to keep him under watch. Ships need more than one man to run it; the chances of it going rogue, or even turning traitor, grow slimmer when every member of the crew is fully and wholly devoted to the Machine Spirit.”

The trio walked through the bustling forge, carefully easing their way past dozens of tech priests. Many were working on Cataphractii armor, doing all the grunt work so that Aevar would only spend a few minutes doing his thing to make it all work. Five years of hard work, and they were no closer to finding out what exactly Aevar was doing; greybeard truly had a magic touch about him.

They made their way to the newly-made lower level, the heat increasing at each step. Down on the second level was the new, massive blast furnace. Its maw was as big as a Land Raider, allowing them to mold entire massive ingots of adamantium into the hull of the war machines, all in one go. Watching over the entire process was the Blasphemer himself.

“Hey, greybeard,” Vermund called.

Aevar looked up from the cherry-red metal that was being pulled from the furnace. His long, salt and pepper hair was pulled into a ponytail. Other than his skin slowly turning into cured leather and his teeth growing another centimeter, he hadn’t changed one bit.

“I’ll be,” he laughed, loping over to them. “It’s not every day you come down here. But when Kemuel comes down with a little gremlin on his shoulders, strange things must be going on.”

“Uncle Aevar,” Laura smiled. “Uncle-Sergeant Julas wanted to lecture me.”

“Oof. No wonder you came down here,” he said. “Maeva! Your daughter’s here!”

From across the forge, Maeva broke away from her work with a group of tech priests.

“Wha’s this ‘bout my girl? She should know better ‘n ta run ‘round here. Could hurt herself.”

“Worry not, I am keeping a close watch on her,” Kemuel said.

“Ah, tha’s good,” Maeva smiled. The five years had been kind to the mortal. She had grown taunt and lean, betraying a strict exercise regimen, but Maeva had grown her hair out more. Crow’s feet were starting to take hold at the edges of her eyes.

“There ya are, ma little mocha gal! Come ta yer momma!” Kemuel handed the little girl off to her. “Wha’ brings ya down here?”

“Uncle-Sergeant Julas was blabbering again,” she said. “He said he had to help the new guard arrive.”

“Tha’s right, ya got new uncles comin’ in today.”

“But I don’t want Uncle Blackfang to leave,” Laura said crossly.

“Then who’d go out an’ kill all th’ fucking xenos?” Her mother asked, tussling her hair. “’r keep us safe from all th’ filthy heretics?”

“But I don’t _want_ Uncle Blackfang to go!”

“Back when I was a mortal, my clan jarl would always say, ‘if wishes were fishes, we’d never go hungry’,” Helfist said. “’But we _do_ go hungry, so what does that tell you?’”

“Is that wise, to tell a child that?” Croan asked.

“Sometimes you need a little tough love.”

“Be tough an’ give love, tha’s wha’ my ma always said,” Maeva grinned. “Now let’s get outta here. This ain’t no place fer a child. How ‘bout we get you washed up ‘fore yer uncle has ta go, yea?”

“Can you wash my hair, too?”

“I’ll brush it real well ‘fore ya when we’re done. Come on.”

“Can I ride on Uncle Kemuel’s shoulders on the way back? I get to see everything from his shoulders.”

All eyes turned to the Custode, but Kemuel was already kneeling to put Laura on his shoulders.  She tapped his helmet, directing him around the forge. He was only too happy to oblige.

“I swear, tha’ girl loves takin’ showers ‘n baths more ‘n anythin’ in th’ world,” Maeva said. “When my brothers ‘n sisters had ta be washed, ya think they’re bein’ tortured.”

“Same with my little ones back on the ice,” Helfist said. “She’s quite the odd duck. Speaking of which, when we were playing hide-and-seek, I couldn’t scry her.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s a druid thing. We can see the power of other’s soul flaring. The more powerful the soul, the brighter it is. But I couldn’t see her, even though she’s got the most power I’ve ever seen, other than the Allfather, that is. How could she have disguised herself?”

“Why not ask her?” Maeva said. “Laura, Uncle Helfist wants ta ask ya a question.”

Kemual turned around. From her spot on his shoulders, Laura made squishing noises, like he was stepping on someone or something.

“Laura…”

“Sorry, mamma,” she said, sitting straight up and giving him her full attention. “Yes, Uncle Helfist?”

“How did you hide yourself from me?” He asked. “I couldn’t scry for you.”

“Revelation taught me to use my inside voice a few days ago,” Laura said. “It felt like an old trick he used to play.”

“And you can make yourself invisible to people who are trying to find you?”

“I don’t know. Revelation only feels, he doesn’t think.”

“Well, when he does, let me know, okay?”

“And watch yourself,” Maeva said. “Can’t go ‘round yankin’ at everythin’, or messin’ up yer uncle’s helmet.”

“Sorry, Uncle Kemuel. I’ll be more careful.”

“It is fine, little one. It will take more than a few careless tugs to damage my armor.”

“Aw, crap,” Maeva hissed. “We’re gettin’ new guards, yea? Tha’ means we get new Grey Knights ta ‘guard’ us.”

“Oh, shit,” Aevar groaned. “That means we gotta talk them out of shipping Laura off on the Black Ships.”

“But she’s not a psyker,” Helfist insisted.

“The last thing we need is to have this argument _again,_ ” Aevar groaned. “She might be a psyker, she might not be. But the Grey Knights would want to send her away regardless. And we can’t have that.”

“We shall talk to Parsef,” Croan said. “He was able to get the other Grey Knights to approach this with as open a mind as they can. He can talk to the new ones, and they would not try to drag Laura away.”

“Th’ fuckers just hava ta try it,” Maeva said, clenching her cybernetic fist. “I’ll give ‘em a good damn reason ta let her be.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar stood on the landing pad as a Thunderhawk landed with a hearty clang. Landing besides them was a Stormwolf, bringing with them brother Vlkas, Blood Claws who had been assigned to them as a punishment for some transgression. The young Vlka filed out, cruses on their lips. The marines of the execution force were much more graceful in their service.

Like before, many came from multiple Chapters. But this time, they weren’t exclusively from First Founding Chapters. There were a few Black Templars and a few Novamarines, and a few others that missed Aevar’s gaze. Then again, his focus wasn’t on the new marines, but rather the new team of Grey Knights. They wore Terminator armor; not his Cataphractii-pattern armor, but the tried and true Indomitus pattern that had replaced the lost Heresy-era armor.

The lead Knight marched towards them.

“Aevar Ironclaws,” he boomed. Aevar rolled his eyes. If the Knight wanted to intimidate him, he would have to do something other than turn the volume of his suit’s vox caster up a few notches. “Inquisitor Parsef says that you are keeping a psyker child from the Black Ships.”

“She isn’t a psyker,” Helfist said. “She’s a powerful druid, a talker of spirits.”

“It matters not what you call it,” the Knight said. “You dare defy the orders of the Astra Telepathica? You know the danger such a child could pose if she is not brought to the Black Ships and given the proper treatment.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Aevar said. “You should know us Vlka Fenryka hate the warp. What’s your name?”

“Do not think that asking for my name will grant you some favor with me.”

Dammit. So much for _that_ plan.

“We’re holding onto her because we feel that the proper authorities to handle her growth are already here,” he said.

“She’s a damn powerful druid,” Helfist said. “She’s so powerful, you think she’s a psyker. The Black Ships would be wasted on her.”

“You dare speak ill of the Astra Telepathica?”

“I speak ill of the Black Ships. You worked with the Inquisition, you must’ve set foot on them. Remember them? _I_ sure do. I was at a colony when the Dark Eldar raided it. After the battle, the Black Ships came around, and we had to turn the planet’s tithe over to them. Now I wasn’t a child they took, and I didn’t even travel with them for long, but that was a fucking scary experience.”

“You want to save her from a slightly discomforting trip?”

“I told you not to bullshit me,” Helfist snarled. “’Slightly discomforting?’ How many kids did you see die? How many did you see go stark-raving mad? Hel, how many times did _you_ nearly lose your life, or your mind on that little jaunt?”

“I-is there a point to this?” The stutter was slight, but noticeable. Aevar knew psykers hated talking about any time spent on the Black Ships; they were the bane of psykers, severing their connection to the warp. But to hear a Grey Knight flinch? That sent chills down his spine.

“Laura will be wasted on whoever happens to teach her. She’s got more power than I do, more pull with the spirits of the heroes of yore, and she’s only a little girl. We can’t send her off to sit in one of the hundreds of desks, brainwashed into being perfect, obedient slave. She needs special treatment, something that only the Grey Knights have mastered.”

“You want us to be her teachers? We are warriors, servants of the Inquisition, slayer of daemons, not the sitter of babes!”

“Look at her and tell me otherwise. I’m doing my best to mold her, to raise her to commune with the spirits of Fenris, but there’s very little left that I can do. She needs help becoming a true bearer of power, and only the Grey Knights are capable of handling such power.”

“Where is she?” The Knight groaned. Undoubtedly, he just wanted to have the argument done with.

Helfist turned to Laura, who was hiding behind Maeva. She held Revelation tight.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Don’t be, we’re just talking,” Aevar said.

“Revelation doesn’t like this.”

“It still has to be done.”

The little girl was quiet, trying to hide behind Maeva’s leg, then relented and curtsied to the Knight.

“This cannot be the child,” he said. “She does not have any power radiating from her.”

“That tips her hand now, doesn’t it?” Helfist grinned. “Laura, are you using your inside voice? The one that Revelation taught you? Come on, swallow your fear, turn it to hate. It’s part of growing up.”

“You called me a child,” she said. “Can’t I go play?”

“We all can’t stay children forever. That’s the damn shame of things,” Helfist said. “Show the nice Knight your real voice.”

Laura held tight to her stuffed pup. Aevar neither saw nor felt anything happen, but the Knight straightened up.

“By the Throne,” he gasped.

“Yea, scared me the first few times, too,” Helfist laughed.

“Little girl, how old are you?”

“My name is Laura, and I’m five years old.

“By the Throne,” the Knight gasped again.

“Think about the loss the Imperium would suffer, should she pass away on the Black Ship, or lose her mind.”

“Or if she is chosen to be a sacrifice to the Emperor,” Aevar added. The memory of the sacrificed psykers floated in front of him; he could almost see Laura being fed to the Golden Throne. For some reason, it made him angry; angrier than he’d ever been.

“I…I can see your point,” the Knight said.

“She needs to be molded, her talents put to good use. Seeing as how Grey Knights are the masters of the immaterium, you can give her the training to withstand the ruinous powers. Think of the good she could do for the Imperium.”

“How did you hide yourself from us?” The Knight asked.

“I used my inside voice.”

“Who taught you that?”

“Revelation,” she said, holding her stuffed pup tighter.

“Revelation? Who is…? No, it matters not. A psyker disguising themselves, hiding their psykic might from others requires untold power and control; for a _child_ to have mastered it…”

“Can we count on ya?” Maeva asked.

The Knight paused, staring in awe at Laura.

“…Yes,” he finally said. Maeva breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, having her board the Black Ships would be a great loss to the Imperium.”

“Thank you,” Helfist said, bowing deeply. Aevar and Maeva followed suit. With a light tap to her shoulder from the ever-silent Kemuel, Laura curtsied.

“The Inquisitor was…right to suggest this,” the Knight realized. “I shall have to talk to him.”

“Parsef and I are seeing more eye-to-eye these days,” Aevar said. “Don’t worry about him.”

“My thanks,” the Knight said. “Laura, how often were you trained?”

“Every other day,” she said. “Uncle Aevar said that he can teach me other stuff the other days.”

“He is wise. We shall begin your training the next day.” The Knight turned, walking back to the rest of his guard, stunned by the little girl.

“Shit, tha’ went better ‘n I thought,” Maeva said the second the Grey Knight was out of ear shot. She wrapped Laura in a tight hug as they walked back to their forge city.

“Glad it did,” Helfist said. “Laura wouldn’t last on the Black Ships.”

“I’m strong, Uncle Helfist,” she pouted.

“Not strong enough. Those fucking ships nearly did me in when I rode on them, and it wasn’t even for half a trip, _and_ I ain’t a psyker. Trust me, this is for the best.”

“We’ll have to toast to our good fortune,” Aevar said. He looked up, and saw Lynia walking towards him. “Shit, maybe we can have a certain stick in the mud join us for a few rounds.”

“I will have to let you know that I have taken an oath of temperance,” Lynia smiled. The parade of fresh arrivals marched passed her, towards the monastery. “So, it appears that Laura has a new teacher.”

“She does,” Croan said. “A good thing, too. I have taken a strange liking to having Laura around.”

“You aren’t the only one,” Lynia said. “Having her around helps with my duties. To tell the truth, I actually miss the occasional crusade that we were called to.”

“Let’s you get out and stretch your legs, don’t it?” Aevar said.

“Exactly,” she smiled back. She wrapped Laura in a hug. “I’m glad that you get to stay with us, little one.”

“I’m glad too, Aunt Lynia. Revelation feels that the Black Ships are bad.”

“They are a necessity, dear.”

“But that doesn’t mean that they’re good.”

“Such an observant girl,” Croan mused.

“A _very_ observant girl,” Lynia agreed. “You’ll need proper schooling soon.”

“Uncle Aevar teaches me things,” Laura said. “Mommy, too. And Uncle Helfist, and Uncle Croan, and Aunt Geist, and—“

“You’re well loved by the Space Marines and Sisters, but that’s not a proper substitute; soon you’ll be a woman grown, and you’ll need proper schooling.”

“An’ who’s ta say my girl ain’t gettin’ th’ best learnin’ possible right now?” Maeva asked, a hard tone in her voice.

“You’re doing a wonderful job raising your child, don’t get me wrong,” Lynia said with ease and grace, “but if we want her to grow to be a true asset to humanity and the Imperium, she’ll need to be challenged, pushed passed her limits.”

“An’ who better ‘n th’ Sisters of Battle, yea? Ya done tootin’ yer own horn?”

“The Sisterhood has roles other than military service,” Lynia said. “We run schools for the children of the Imperium, teaching them how to be traders, craftswomen, guardswomen, speakers and stateswomen. Knowledge is power, and we guard it well.”

“She’s got a point,” Aevar said. “We’re good, and some of us are smart, but Laura needs more than just how to build armor or weapons. She has to find her own path, not one we give to her.”

Maeva gave him a hard stare, but ultimately relented.

“Yea, tha’s right,” she sighed. “My ma and pa didn’t raise me ta be a blacksmith; I had ta bug th’ shit outta th’ local smith ta teach me.”

“The it’s settled,” Lynia said. “We’ll take Laura to the greatest school we have.”

“Wait, take her away?” Maeva snapped. “We just fought th’ fuckin’ Grey Knights ta keep her here!”

“I’m sorry, I misspoke. We have a great school on Dimmimar, in our monastery around the mountain. She’ll learn there.”

“Mommy, I don’t want to leave,” Laura protested.

“I know, little one, but it’s gotta happen one day,” she said crossly. “’Sides, we’ll be here, an’ you can visit whenever yer free. We’re just right ‘round th’ mountain.”

“Revelation feels you’re right,” she pouted.

“See? Just listen ta him, an’ he won’t stear ya wrong. ‘Sides, this little forge city of ours ain’t no place fer a little girl. Ya need ta spend time ‘round other kids, learn ta play games an’ such. It’ll be good for ya.”

“I’ll go tell the Knights what the plan is,” Aevar said. “Hel, maybe they can examine the city while they’re at it. We’ve got a chaos cult poppin’ up way too often. Some cleansing would do everyone good.”

“Not a bad idea,” Lynia said. “The repeated rise of these cults is…disturbing.”

“I don’t know, kinda makes me feel that all’s right with the universe,” Helfist said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The warp has been quiet for the longest time. _Far_ too damn quiet. The warp isn’t supposed to be calm for years on a stretch, it’s supposed to bubble and boil, to try and get in between the heroes of Fenris and us.

“But ever since…shit, ever since old man Ironclaws here got back from Terra, it’s been way too damn quiet. To have something happen, it’s a bit of a relief.”

“Better th’ daemon ya know ‘n th’ daemon ya don’t, yea?” Maeva laughed.

“You crazy Space Wolves,” Croan muttered.

“While you find it refreshing, we don’t,” Lynia said. “I’ll have to have a talk with Parsef, see if he can spare a few agents to investigate these cults. While no planet is completely immune to the foul lure of the warp, it stains our honor to have it happen at a Shrine World.”

“Can you get Aunt Geist to help you?” Laura asked, perking up. “Maybe she can visit!”

“Tha’s not a bad idea, yea?”

“Can Uncle Kemuel come, too?”

Aevar turned towards the silent Custode. Even in his armor, he hardly made any noise. It was easy to forget that he was there.

“I am a bodyguard,” he replied. “I was assigned to this planet to watch over Aevar Ironclaws, and no one else. Although I can attempt to make myself available to watch over Laura.”

“Before we go finding a school for Laura,” Croan said, “there is something that I must show you. It just arrived with our new execution force.”

He gently held up an ornate weapon case. It was made from aged wood, ancient from the looks of it, long since petrified. Aged gold leaf was lovingly etched along the edges, and shone from regular polishing. He opened it, and inside, sitting on what looked like velvet padding, was a gun.

“That can’t be. Is that a Volkite caliver?” Aevar gasped.

“That it is,” the Salamander grinned.

“How the Hel did you get your hands on that? Those are relics Mars would kill to keep safe.”

“I have long asked the Forge Master on Nocturne for the additional weapons to examine,” he said. “He was greatly reluctant, as he should be, but with the progress we have been making in improving arms and armor, he decided that it was worth an attempt to re-create lost weaponry, especially with the success we’ve had with the Cataphractii armor.”

“So he just sent you a relic from the Heresy. Just like that.”

“I never said that it was easy for him to come to that conclusion.”

“You sneaky bastard,” Aevar grinned. “You know we have to take that apart, right?”

“It pains my soul, but yes.”

“Then we’ll get Laura a good dinner, then it’s back to work. Where’s Legato, still got his nose stuffed in some tome, writing shit down? You go pull him from his precious library, there’s new work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar was itching for a fight.

Not another practice match with the Claws, but a real fight, with no pulled punches or blunted blades or dud bolter rounds. He needed to see and taste death. Morkai’s balls, he wanted a fight.

Gritting his teeth, he went back to writing down his new findings on a piece of parchment. Exile was fucking awful, especially for a Vlka Fenryka. No war, no fight, no battle, just all the fucking work in the galaxy. Even if he was making progress in gently disassembling the Volkite caliver and kind of understanding its inner-workings, he needed to get the fight out of his system. He was getting blue balled to Hel and back.

A polite knock came from his door. Groaning, Aevar looked up from the table he was working at.

“Yes, what is it?”

The door opened, and a large-framed tech priest walked in. He wore the white robes of the Metalica forge-world. Like many other tech priests, nearly his entire body was converted to mechanical augmentations; the only thing organic were a few patches of skin on his face.

“I have a…request to ask of you,” the priest said.

“’A request?’ Aren’t you gonna buy me a drink first?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, never mind,” he groaned. “What is it?”

“I am a member of a small group of like-minded priests. My name is Botho, and I wanted to ask for your help.”

“What kind of help you looking to get? And what the Hel do you mean, ‘like-minded priests?’”

“The task that is presented to us, to re-create relics and re-discover lost technology, is a truly massive undertaking,” the priest said. “Surely you are aware of this.”

“You know what else I’ve heard? That the grass is green. Got anything else groundbreaking you’d like to share?”

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” Botho asked.

“No, just frustrated,” Aevar sighed.

“Many of us are, even those outside of our group,” Botho said. “I can easily sympathize with you. Which is where our group comes in.”

“And that is…?”

“We need a truly ground-breaking discovery. The work that we’ve done is a stalling pattern, nothing more, nothing less.”

That got Aevar’s attention.

“What do you mean, ‘a stalling pattern?’”

“The only creations that have truly shook the Imperium were the creation of the Cataphractii-pattern armor and Paragon blades. The other discoveries, the improvements to shielding technology, to servo-motors and vox-casters, those are small findings. They are simply…a step to the side, if you will, instead of a great leap forward.

“Our group feels the need for a great leap forward, instead of dilly-dallying around with minor discoveries. We need to launch ourselves forward, and we need to do this immediately.”

“Aye, it feels like I’ve been pounding my head against a wall for years.”

“Then we are of the same mind. We need a great discovery to re-claim all that we’ve lost. And my group believes that we’ve found a way to do that.”

“You’ve got my attention,” Aevar said. A breeze blew in, tickling his nose. It was one of oil and machine-grime, and an old smell he hadn’t smelt in a long time.

“We need to meet, to discuss things as a group,” Botho said. “Once we reach a consensus, we can take proper action at…finding our muse, if you will. Our patron, a new source of information and discovery.”

“Find the problem, solve the problem. I like that.”

“That is most excellent news. We believe that we have found a patron who can assist us in our search. Can we count on you for your help?”

“You’ve got it,” Aevar said. His heart was pounding, his eyes seeing red. Oh, how he missed this. “Where are we meeting?”

“Four days from now, when the moon is full,” Botho said. He walked forward and handed a scrap of paper to him. “We need to meet discretely, lest we let the knowledge flow wild and spoil our find. Meet here.” Botho didn’t have a mouth, but Aevar could hear a grin. “We look forward to working with you.”

He bowed, then left his room. Aevar was studying the piece of paper. It was a rough map, but he knew the location.

“Uncle Aevar?”

He looked up. Laura had managed to creep in without making a noise. She held Revelation close to her chest. Her eyes wide and full of panic; Aevar could see their dull gold clear across the room.

“Who was that man?” She asked.

“Just a tech priest, dear.” He stood up and walked towards her. “What are you doing up and about? You should be in bed, getting your sleep in. It’s a busy day tomorrow, with your first day of school.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Revelation said you were in danger.”

“I’m always in danger, Laura. Comes with being the Blasphemer.” He scooped her up, giving her a tight hug. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

“That’s a bad man,” she said. Terror was in her voice. “A very bad man. He’s planning something terrible.”

“I know,” Aevar said. He led her out of his chambers. Botho was still walking down the long hallway. He was almost at the stairs. _“Take a good look at him,”_ he whispered in Juvik. Maeva had long ago taught Laura how to speak like a proper Fenrisian. _“That is what a traitor looks like.”_

 _“He’s a traitor?”_ Laura gasped.

_“Aye, a heretic who just turned.”_

_“But he looks like a tech priest.”_

_“Of course. Heresy can look like anyone, anything. We all must be vigilant and know the true signs that someone’s fell to the Ruinous Powers. Did you hear him? He talked in riddles, never actually talking about his group, or what this ‘source’ was. He was vague, for all the wrong reasons.”_

_“I think I understand.”_

_“You probably don’t, but that’s to be expected. You’re only five years old; hardly old enough to spot treachery. How did you know he was a bad man?”_

_“Revelation spotted him. He felt that he was a bad man. What do we do now? Uncle-Sergeant Julas always says that we have to kill traitors. Why didn’t you kill him?”_

_“Because there are a_ group _of traitors out there, and we don’t know who they are,”_ he replied. _“A very smart Grey Knight once told me that when hunting down corruption, you don’t tear the stalk off a weed or it’ll simply grow back. Instead, you must find the roots, and pull them up in one fell swoop. That’s what I’ve done; I’ve found a way to locate all of the damned roots there are.”_

 _“And then we pull them up and cut their threads,”_ Laura said, a grin growing on her face. _“Unleash the murder-make and kill them for turning traitor!”_

_“That’s my girl.”_

Aevar stopped, halted dead in his tracks. He never called her that before, never once, and he knew _exactly_ what she was. Laura didn’t mind; she wrapped him it a hug, glad that he wasn’t falling to chaos.

 _“That’s my girl,”_ he said, returning the hug. _“Now off to bed with you. Gotta put the word out on that bastard.”_

_“Uncle-Sergeant Julas says we should fear traitors.”_

_“No, you need to_ hate _traitors, just like how you should hate xenos.”_

_“Hate?”_

_“Aye, hate. Hate them so much that you don’t feel fear. Hate them so much so you can act. Hate them so much that you can kill them, instead of them killing you. And always be wary; they could be anywhere, anyone. Now let’s get you back to bed. You’ve got a big day coming up, and we need you well rested.”_

 

* * *

 

“He won’t show,” Armelia spat.

“Of course he will,” Botho said. “He is just as frustrated as we are at our insurmountable task.”

“We are wasting our time waiting,” Armelia continued, her servo-arms twitching and thrashing. The five other priests were anxious. Nervous. But at the same time, they were energetic, ready to act. “We need to continue.”

“You shall do no such thing,” Botho said. “We will find our patron together, as we planned. He is out there, and he wants to be found. The scrolls that we found, the hints we had to chase, it all came together so easy. Our patron wants this, and we _will_ find him.”

The door to their meeting room scraped open, and everyone went quiet. The ground thudded, shaking with the weight of Aevar Ironclaws and his master-crafted armor. His twin servo-claws sat, ready but unused. Two others accompanied him, a tech priest and a tough-looking woman with heavy scars along the side of her face. She also had a cybernetic arm.

“This it?” The Blasphemer asked, a chuckle at his lips. “Damn small room to have a meeting in. Looks like an old storage room someone forgot about.”

“It has served us well in the past, it shall do,” Botho said.

“You come bearing arms?” Armelia demanded, pointing with three of her cybernetic arms.

“What, ya mean Katla?” Aevar said, jerking a thumb at the massive thunder hammer that sat mag-locked to his back. “I take her everywhere. Haven’t you seen me in the forge with her?”

“Armelia, peace, he is an Angel of Death. They bring their weapons everywhere,” Botho said. “Please forgive her. Our unbearable workload has left her nerves ragged.”

“Shit, can’t blame her,” the scared woman said. “We need a fuckin’ miracle, yea?”

“C-can we please just see what they have to say?” The thin priest stammered. He was wringing his hands, both his flesh and bone hands, as well as his servo-arms.

“Everyone know Maeva, my kaerl assistant?” Aevar asked. “No? Well, this is Maeva. Say ‘hello,’ Maeva.”

“Hello, Maeva.”

“And this is Legato, a fellow priest.”

“Can we all start now?” Armelia demanded. “I want answers, and I’m tired of waiting.”

“Right to the point, I see,” Aevar chuckled. “I like her.”

“Excellent. I thank you all for coming,” Botho said, bowing to the Ironclaws.  “Let us start. Please, stand over there. We have found some incantations which shall help us. Let us begin.”

Aevar and his two hired hands stood by, far from the door. Good, that was good. They couldn’t have anyone’s nerves breaking and running for the door. Botho’s gaze lingered on Legato. He would break and run, he knew it. That meant that he was the first to die. A servo-arm gently caressed the blaster at his hip. Maybe Aevar would kill Legato; the Blasphemer was so used to playing fast and loose with the rules, he _had_ to be open to suggestion, to the power that Botho could feel. He was here, after all, helping them find their patron.

Botho took his place at the head of the circle they drew on the ground. Armelia and the five others took their places. All seven bowed their heads, and began chanting in Binary.

Something began coursing through Botho’s veins. It wasn’t the Omnissiah’s glory, it was something else. It burned him; it hurt. But he welcomed it. Yes, this was the patron he was seeking, this was the breakthrough he needed, the knowledge he craved. Oh, yes, this would do just fine.

A shrill scream echoed, then two more, along with a blast. Botho was pulled from his chanting, his meditation, to see Armelia and another priest falling. Electricity arced across Armeila’s body, while the other priest’s head was blown clean off. The tech priest Legato held a strange gun, while Aevar held a bolt pistol.

“You forgot about Iounn,” he said. “She doesn’t like to be forgotten.”

“Traitor! You’ve interrupted the ceremony!” Botho yelled. He gaped as Legato’s features changed; they shriveled, twisted and contorted, until Legato wasn’t a man at all, but rather a black-clad female. It was the assassin, the tool of the Inquisitor.

“This one is not the traitor,” she said. A blade slid from its wrist-mounted sheath. “Prepare to die.”

But the power they pooled was complete. Reality seemed to rend, and more power flowed through it.

“I do not think so,” Botho grinned as the sires of his patron pushed their way into reality, their foul stench made Maeva gag. Twenty sets of arms reached through, grasping at reality, blisters popping, sores weeping, skin molting. “I think we shall be the ones who—“

The air erupted with bolt gun chatter. The sires of their patron weathered them, and three fell.

“What?!”

A team of Grey Knights had arrived. They had broken down the door and stood, lances at the ready.

“Meet your death, heretic,” they spat.

The air seemed to crack, and the portal snapped closed, slicing the summoned help of their patron. But half of sires had come through, ten total. They would have to be enough.

“You think we’d come here without anyone backing us up?” Aevar laughed, pulling out his thunder hammer, the one he called Katla. “You’re dumber that I thought.”

“Attack them!”

Their patron’s angels surged forward, a lovely howl at their lips.

“For the Emperor!” The Knights yelled, surging forward, lances held tight. Botho coughed, his vox-grill leaking phlegm, pus and blood. His soul was in pain, screaming for relief and screaming for more. Armelia groaned, pulling her dead body to its feet. He could see her, no, he could see his patron working through her, moving her, powering her.

“Kill them all!” He yelled. Bolts from Aevar’s gun hit his body, but his wilting flesh found sudden strength. Flesh seemed to be spilling from his servo-arms, from his carapace, from his legs, from everywhere. Sickly, green-tinted flesh that held surprising strength. The same flesh seemed to sprout from the four other priests, their howls of agony and bliss fighting to be heard over the clash of the Knights and the angels.

The priests yelled, running at the Blasphemer. Maeva pulled two hidden axes from her belt, and was hacking one priest apart. The assassin launched herself at a group of them. Botho blinked, and two were already cut down, missing their heads and portions of their bodies. The two others swung back, but the assassin faded away like she wasn’t there; then she took another head. She was joined by Ironclaws, who’s hammer rang like thunder as he swept the cursed bodies away.

“It’s over,” Aevar said. It was as if there wasn’t a care in the entire galaxy to him; he was relishing the sounds of combat, of the battle itself. “You looked a bit too hard, and found something you shouldn’t have.”

“We need power, Blasphemer,” Botho cursed. “Power! Greater than the ones we have!”

“Keep talking.”

There was a thunderous explosion, and his entire body seemed to break. Botho was flung across the room, hitting the wall like a burst pustule. The life-force leaking from him, his vision blackening, he saw the Knights striding forward, shaking gore from their armor.

“Damn, felt good to stretch,” Ironclaws said, “even if it’s only for a bit.”

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention,” the lead Knight said. “This is the third chaos cult that we have found this month.”

 

* * *

 

When Botho awoke, his flesh was on fire. He tried to scream, but pus bubbled from his mouth. He was in a vile pit of burning, boiling excrement, green filth from who knew where. Flies attacked him from every which way. He swatted at them, driving them away and allowing new ones to take their place, feasting at his eyes, his skin, anything they could touch. He tried to breathe, tried to scream, tried to flounder, but all he could do was hear his patron laughing.


	23. A Simple Plan

“Most foul,” a Grey Knight said, bending down to examine the mess of blood and bodies. He pulled out a pink arm. “There appears to be a daemon of Tzeentch.”

That got Aevar’s attention. He did his best to keep his face even. It had been too long since his perilous journey with the rogue trader Agostina from Terra back to Fenris, but the memory remained of the tinkering pink terrors, who strangely _always_ seemed to aide them.

“That’s strange,” he said as evenly as he could. “What’s that doing there?”

“I believe that it closed the portal,” the Knight said. “It was a solid connection to the warp, and it was forcibly closed. To do that requires much psykic might, or it is the foul tinkering of the god of the warp.”

“They do hate each other, don’t they? Nurgle and Tzeentch?”

“That they do. We are most fortunate.”

“Aye, fortunate,” Aevar said. “Maeva, how are you?”

“Pukin’ my guts out, but I’m fine.” She spat, trying to clear her mouth of bile. Geist gently held her hair back. “Frost’s balls, they smell fuckin’ bad.”

“This one agrees. It is the most reprehensible thing about them.”

“Hey, you done in there?”

Aevar looked up. Helfist was poking his head into the room, peering over the pouldron of a Grey Knight’s armor.

“Yea, we’re done,” he said, walking out. “How are the Claws?”

“Bitching that they missed a brawl, but they’re fine,” the Rune Priest said. “They might change their tune when they get a whiff of you.”

“Think this is bad? You should try sharing a room with a Great Unclean One,” Aevar laughed as he walked out of the tiny room.

“Morkai’s balls, greybeard, not cool,” Vermund grimaced. “You better clean yourself up. Our favorite pup is visiting today.”

“Is it really the end of her first month already?”

“Uncle Aevar! Uncle Helfist!”

“Does that answer your question?”

Laura ran around the corner, her school dress billowing, her book bag filled to the brim and a wide smile on her face. Legato ran after her, trying to catch her.

“Laura, please, there’s dangerous things going on over there,” he said.

“Uncle…! Ugh, you smell.” Laura stopped a good five meters from him, pinching her nose closed.

“Just had to kill some damn traitors and daemons,” he smiled. “Look at you, dressed like a picture-perfect school brat. How’s your classes?”

“They’re fine,” she said with a weighty sigh.

“And no Revelation?” Helfist asked “What happened to him?”

“The other kids made fun of me,” she muttered. “They thought he was stupid.”

“Don’t tell me you did something to those kids.”

“Unfortunately, she had,” Legato said. “A very nice Sister said that she put three boys and a girl in the care of the hospitallers. Broken bones.”

“Where did you punch them?” Aevar asked.

“In the nose,” Laura mumbled.

“ _Just_ the nose?”

“No.”

“The Sister says she needs to be properly disciplined,” Legato said.

“We’ll have to talk to Maeva about this, seeing as she’s her girl,” Helfist said.

“Where is Mommy?”

“Right here, sweet thin.’” The Knights finally let Maeva and Geist out of the room.

“Mommy! Aunt Geist! You smell too.”

“Just savin’ th’ Imperium,” Maeva smiled, wiping bile from her mouth. “Still means I can hug ya, though.”

“Ew! Get away!” Laura laughed as Maeva playfully lunged at her. “Aunt Geist, make her stop!”

“Sadly, this one requires multiple decontamination showers to make herself presentable,” the assassin said. “She is unable to assist.”

“Now wha’s this ‘bout ya gettin’ in a fight, yea?” Maeva asked. She stood akimbo a good meter from her daughter to spare her the smell.

“The other kids made fun of me and Revelation.”

“An’ ya did wha?’”

“I hit them.”

“Did ya win?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

“Did ya keep yer fists balled up like I showed ya?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl,” she smiled. “Now next time, they’d think twice ‘bout pickin’ on ya.”

“They still don’t like Revelation,” Laura pouted. “The Sisters make me keep him in the dorm room.”

“Ah, the perils of growing up,” Helfist sighed dramatically. “Takes me back to the ice with my little ones. You get yourselves cleaned up; Croan is gonna want to smother you, and you know that when he starts, it’s hard to stop him.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, it’s the girl who still plays with dolls!”

Laura glared at the group of boys, taking a step towards them. They laughed, screamed and ran away. She knew she could run faster than them, but her mom always said to let some go so they would tell others that she was not to be messed with.

“Run, you cowards,” she yelled. “I’ll beat you up next time.”

She might not have Revelation with her, but he was still with her. He was there, somewhere in her head, filling her head with his feelings. And Revelation was laughing, or grinning, or chuckling, or something like that. Like this was all a game, something that was so tiny and insignificant.

Laura hated them, and sometimes she hated Revelation, too. She had to feel angry, she had to hate; Uncle Aevar told her that hate was good. Hate made her want to fight, not to wallow and cry. Hate made her strong.

“You shouldn’t listen to them.”

Laura looked up. Another girl was talking to her, with dirty-blond hair that reached far down her back. Her uniform-dress was clean, but worn, like someone else wore it long ago. The only thing that seemed new was a silver charm bracelet that dangled from her wrist, and two massive, golden earrings.

The bracelet shone bright, but not like silver; more like simple steel.  Her long blond hair hid her ears, which were covered with giant, golden eagle-winged ear rings, like she couldn’t have her ears bared at all. Something about her tickled Laura wrong; it was her sixth sense, the one Uncle Helfist taught her to use to talk to the spirits of Fenris with. It was like the girl wasn’t quite there, or was quite a little girl. It made Revelation uneasy, but curious as well.

“Why shouldn’t I listen to them?” Laura said. “I can’t let them walk all over me.”

“They only say it because they know it’ll get you angry,” the girl said. Something about what she said made sense, like it made Revelation agree.

“You’re right,” she mumbled. “They’re dumb.”

“ _All_ boys are dumb,” the girl smiled. Her charm bracelet tinkled as she played with her hair. But she made sure not to uncover he ears.

“My Uncle Aevar is smart,” Laura said.

“You have an uncle? I don’t. Or a dad. How old is he, your uncle?”

“…I don’t know. Old, I guess,” she said. “He has more grey hair than anything else.”

“If he’s old, he can’t be a boy, can he?”

“Yea, you’re right. I wonder what makes men smarter than boys.”

“I don’t know, but they could grow up faster. They’re annoying.”

“Yea, they are. Annoying and stupid.”

The girl giggled.

“You want to play with us?” The girl asked. “We still have time before the Sisters call us back.”

“None of the other girls let me play with them,” Laura said. “They think I’m a freak.”

“We’re both freaks,” the girl laughed. She held out her hand, the one with the bracelet. “But we’re not stupid like the boys. Don’t you want to play?”

“I’d like that,” Laura said. “What’s your name?”

“Dylena.”

“I’m Laura.”

“Everyone knows who you are,” Dylena said. “You’re the only one to break a boy’s bones. Come on, before prayer.”

‘Prayer.’ That word made her feel sick, or at least it made Revelation feel sick. And if Revelation was sick, she became sick. But it had to be done; Uncle Aevar told her she had to pray, and mamma told her too, as well. And Aunt Geist. So did all of her Uncles, especially Uncle Aevar and Uncle Legato. It might be terrible, but it had to be done.

Her stomach rolling, she ran over with Dylena, getting dirt on her dress. That sick feeling in her stomach made her want to take a bath.

 

* * *

 

The small cafeteria was filled with kids who were clamoring to eat.

The nice Sisters made them form into lines and wait their turn. Slowly, Dylena made her way down the line, getting her own tray of food.

“I thank the Emperor for this meal, and pray for my continued safety from the horrors beyond. Ave Imperator,” Dylena said automatically. Dylena put her hands together, feeling her bracelet slide down her forearm. She had to say the prayer; the Sisters made them pray endlessly. As mundane as it was, it surprisingly made her feel safe and warm.

“Keep His light in your heart, and you will grow strong,” the red-haired Sister smiled. She handed Dylena a tray of food, then readied another tray for the boy behind her.

Dylena was glad she got to be away from the boy. He was pulling her hair, and she had to keep her ears hidden. She hadn’t seen her mother in years, but her image was burned into her brain; her image, her language, and her words, she could never forget them. Above all else, she had to cover her ears and keep her bracelet.

Looking around the cafeteria, Dylena found a group of girls who she talked to and played with before. She smiled at them, and they waved her over.

“Was that boy bothering you?” One of the girls asked. “He couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

“He was pulling my hair,” Dylena sighed, running her fingers through her golden locks, making sure her massive ear rings were in place. “I don’t like it when people touch my hair.”

“Oh, it’s so soft!” One girl ignored Dylena and was stroking her hair. “No wonder he couldn’t keep his hands off it!”

“Stop it,” Dylena cried. It made the other girls laugh and they pretended to reach out and grab her hair. Her hands shot to her ears, clamping over them.

 _You must never let the mammals see your ears, my love,_ her mother had said. It was burned into her memory so she would never, ever forget them. _You must live with them, but never let them see! To them, you are a freak, a monster. But they are simple-minded creatures; you can easily trick them. They will never know, so long as you keep your ears hidden._

The girls stopped, but not because they were being nice. They were glaring at another girl who had made her way through the line.

It was Laura. Her hair seemed almost as luscious as Dylena’s, but as black as night. She stood with her tray of food, looking for some place to sit. Many of the other children saw her, and turned the other way.

“I heard her call the Blasphemer ‘uncle,’” one girl said.

“The Blasphemer? My daddy says he’s a traitor.”

“He’s not a traitor. The Sisters would burn him if he was.”

“My daddy is never wrong. He’s a traitor, and if he’s her uncle, she’s a traitor, too.”

Her mother had given her an important task. Dylena dreamt about it every night. Her mother gave her the task, and made so she would never forget.

_There is a girl there, Dylena. A girl with the blackest of hair, raised by wolves and trapped in the city. You must befriend her, grow close to her, mold her and shape her. She must realize her potential, for she is our salvation. She will take our place as the one who’s spirit is to be sacrificed to She Who Thirsts, she will grant us victory from the Primordial Annihilator. Do this, and you will save us all._

“There’s space for her here,” Dylena said. “She should sit with us.”

“Dylena, no! She’s a freak!”

_To them, you are a freak, a monster._

“She’s not the only one.”

Laura saw Dylena’s hand waving her over, and smiled when she recognized her. The other girls glowered and scooted away, leaving plenty of room for Laura.

Laura wasn’t blind. She could see she was being shunned.

“Hi,” she mumbled anyways.

The way Laura looked at her, Dylena could see her hatred. Hatred of the girls who pushed her away, hatred that the she, Dylena, wasn’t the one they hated.

“Hi, Laura,” Dylena smiled.

Dylena didn’t care for her hatred. She was a freak, sent to befriend another freak. But for once, in the years she was sent to the convent, Dylena felt at home with Laura.

 

* * *

 

Julas had to squeeze to get through the mortal-sized doorway, but he avoided scratching his armor, or tearing the doorway apart. The children gasped as Julas entered the classroom. A sea of wide-eyes stared at him; the only one not in awe was Lauren, who sat near the front.

What was his life coming to? First, he was sent to be an executioner, in a roll much like Death Watch. Then he joined the Blasphemer in exile. Now was to teach children. He wanted to rub the sleep from his eyes; the Nightmare was getting worse, invading nearly every moment of his life. But he had to look in control, he had to maintain the image of the Ultramarines.

“Greetings,” he said, stowing his helmet under his arm. “My name is Sergeant Julas Domius. Given the less than usual living arrangement that we have with the Sisters of Battle and Cult Mechanicus, it was decided that I, the Master of the Guard, shall assist with your schooling. I will be teaching you the glorious history of the Imperium, and the various crusades that the Emperor’s Angels of Death have undertaken. Are there any questions?”

Everyone shook their heads ‘no.’ Laura raised her hand.

“Unc—“

“You shall address me in the proper manner,” he snapped, cutting her off before the word left her mouth, “when given permission to speak. Is that understood?”

All the other students shrunk back, as if they were the ones at the receiving end of the sharp rebuke. Laura simply bared her neck.

 _That child spends too much time with the wolves,_ he thought. _She is picking up their mannerisms. That must change._

A few of the braver boys and girls looked at her.

“’ _Uncle?_ ’” They whispered.

“If _anyone_ has anything to say, you will ask for permission,” he snapped. “Is that understood?”

The children mumbled a variety of ‘yes, sirs.’ Lauren glowered.

“Now, are there any questions?” He pressed.

Laura raised her hand. Julas waited several seconds for other students to raise their hands. Seeing none, he turned to her.

“Yes?”

“Will Unc—“

Julas glared at her. She knew how to properly address a member of the Emperor’s Chosen.

“Sergeant Julas,” she corrected herself, speaking as a proper citizen should, “will Vermund Helfist or Aevar Ironclaws be teaching us? Or even Croan Dragonsword? Will you be taking turns?”

“No, the Wolves are to tend to their own pack, and the Tech Marines to their forge,” he said. “Children need a strong, square upbringing, taught how to give proper respect. If the need comes for me to be elsewhere when the time for your lessons approaches, the appropriate substitute will be chosen.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Laura said, trying not to let on how disappointed she was.

“Are there any other questions?”

A girl sitting next to Laura shakily rose her hand. She had long, flowing blonde hair, golden eagle-winged earrings, and a steel charm bracelet. She was, obviously, scared of him; her charm bracelet was rattling, her arm shaking like a twig in a gale.

“What is your name, child?”

“Dylena, milord.”

“Very good, you have addressed the Emperor’s Chosen correctly. Your peers will be good to learn from you.”

A wide, radiant, smile filled her face.

“Will we be learning about your Chapter, milord?” She asked

‘His’ Chapter. He had no Chapter. He only had his duty as an executioner, and the damned Nightmare that plagued him.

“The Ultramarines will be among the Chapters we learn about, correct,” he said instead.

Smiling, Dylena lowered her hand.

“The Sisters have informed me that you have the necessary textbooks. We shall start at the beginning: the birth of the Imperium.”

There was a flurry of activity as everyone ran to grab a book. Julas took a second to rub his eyes.

 

 

 

_Julas stood on a field of death. Corpses were everywhere, mostly human. Dead bodies were falling from the heavens, and it was raining blood. There was no ground; he stood atop the dead that littered the plain. From one end of the horizon to the other, there was only death._

_Faces looked up at him with glazed eyes. He saw Tullus, Potitus, brothers who fell decades ago. In another pile was Appius, and Caius was torn into three pieces, melting from the stomach juices of some foul Tyranid beast._

_“Brothers, please,” he cried. “Forgive me. We had to do this. I had to do this.”_

_ “You  _ had _to.”_ _Julas never knew who was speaking, or where the voice came from, but he could hear the sarcasm dripping from it. “You think you are a hero; you are disposable. You are they puppet that fat, old men tug about. You dance to their tune, told when and where and how to die. You are simply a plastic piece on a board, to be moved, used, and thrown away._

_ “But this is not your fate. You can free yourself from the rules of man. You can find true freedom, where your sacrifices are always worthy. You will never be forgotten.” _

_Knee-deep in the dead, Julas prayed to the Emperor._

“Let us in!”

 

 

 

From across the room, Laura shoved a girl, and shoved her hard. The poor girl went flying. Every child was glaring at Laura.

“Children, there will be no fighting,” he snapped. “You must save your fury and rage for the enemies of man, for they are many.”

Laura made her way back to her seat, book clutched tightly to her chest. The other children gave her plenty of room, all except Dylena.

 

* * *

 

“She’s growing up too fast,” Legato said. He pushed a data-slate to Aevar.

“Of course she’s growing,” Aevar sighed, pushing the data-slate back. “She’s a child, and children grow up fast.”

“No, that’s not what I said,” Legato pleaded. “She’s growing up _too_ fast, even compared to those children who are early bloomers. It’s like she _needs_ to be an adult or something.”

“An adult? She’s barely ten years old.”

“Exactly,” Legato said. “That’s what’s worrying. Her gene-seed is too active. Soon she’ll be hitting puberty, and then we won’t be able to keep…”

“I got a pretty damn good idea what’s gonna happen if they find out,” Aevar said. “So, what do we do?”

“There’s a plague-outbreak in the city,” Legato said. “The Sisters are suspecting another heretical cult in the works.”

“Fucking again? That’s the fifth one this year.”

“Fucking again. But that’s tied to my idea to help Laura. We use the outbreak of the plague to give her medicine.”

“Medicine? She’s never been sick a day in her little life,” Aevar laughed. “Even through some of the several-dozen some-odd Nurgle cult outbreaks.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But this gives us the perfect opportunity to keep her under wraps.” Legato took the data-slate and accessed a different scroll. “I’ve been working on this in my off-time. I got the gene-work right; we don’t give her true medicine, we give her suppressants.”

“You mean poison. This is poison.” Aevar’s hair prickled up. No one was poisoning his Laura.

“Yes, but a poison she could handle,” Legato said. “It would help suppress her gene-seed’s rapid growth. Keep her looking her age, looking like a normal human, instead of…well, you know…”

“Yea, I get it,” he grumbled. _No one_ was going to poison his little girl. But she was already marked as a psyker of immense power; it was a miracle that Parsef let her work with Grey Knights. They were already pushing that miracle by not having the Knights take her away. They couldn’t push their luck any more. “How sick would it make her?”

“Not terribly sick, but just enough to retard her growth to more manageable levels. It’ll give her a bad cough, runny nose, it would be like a simple cold. She’ll blend in.”

“How long would it last?”

“Maybe a month? It’s hard to tell; her gene-seed is strong, just as you’d imagine. We’ll have to give her regular doses.”

 

* * *

 

Being sick sucked.

Laura groaned, rolling over on her dorm room cot so she could breathe out of her one un-stuffed nostril. She got a full breath before being racked by a cough. She reached for the near-by bucket and spat out a massive wad of phlegm. Normally she had to be careful how much she spat; the room was shared with several dozen girls, and they all hated spitting. But they were in classes, leaving her alone in the room. She could be as loud as she wanted.

She took the time to reach under her bed and grab Revelation. He was becoming dusty and old, but Uncle Helfist’s crocheting held strong. It felt good to hold onto something familiar, even if it was a stuffed animal.

A door at the end of the dorm room opened; she quickly let go of Revelation and pushed him under the bed, in the box she had hidden him in. Her blond-haired friend poked her head into the dorm room, quick and sudden.

“Laura, you aren’t falling to Chaos, are you?”

“Don’t even joke about that, Dylena,” she mumbled, pulling the covers up higher.

“Come on, you know I don’t mean it.” Dylena flopped down at the foot of her bed, her bracelet softly tinkling.  She sat with such poise and grace, Laura wondered if she had rehearsed the movement, planned and choreographed it. It was beyond human perfection. “You’re the most faithful one here. Or one of them, at least.”

Her stomach knotted itself, hearing the word ‘faith.’ She hated that word, she hated being sick. She wanted to take another bath, to try and get clean again. She found herself wanting to take more and more baths and showers, almost like she couldn’t get some spot of dirt off.

“Sylwia actually lit a candle at the altar to the Emperor,” Dylena smiled, tugging at her hair. She took a second to adjust it, hiding her ears. Laura couldn’t see why; her eagle-wing earrings were beautiful. Massive, but beautiful. “A _real_ candle. We all pitched in, but she was the one to light it. She paid the most.”

Sylwia wasn’t her friend, she was another admirer of Dylena. Was she buying a candle for Laura just to get closer to Dylena? Her only friend had a lot of admirers, both boys and girls.

Laura couldn’t help but snort. The pretty, perfect, and above all _normal_ Dylena who didn’t have Space Marines as uncles. Sometimes she hated her.

“Thanks,” she said instead. “I’ll get better. Just need some time.” Another cough tore through her, and she spat out more phlegm.

“That’s nasty,” Dylena grimaced.

“Sorry, being sick brings out the best in me,” she laughed. Seeing Dylena cringe always made her laugh. With her angular cheeks flushing and her gently recoiling, it was great to see her cringe. Dylena even looked graceful when she blushed, like she was just the perfect picture of poise. Laura spat again, just to get the dregs out.

“Ew, stop that,” Dylena grimaced again. “Were you raised by wolves?”

“Space Wolves, actually,” a deep voice rumbled. Dylena jumped from the bed, faster than any human should have be able to move. A massive, black-armored form opened the door, and a slightly smaller, grey-armored man entered.

“Uncle Aevar,” Laura tried to say. She only succeeded in dislodging another wad of phlegm. “And Uncle Kemuel.”

“Uncles?” Dylena muttered. “This is your family?”

She should never have said that. She really was just some special princess, a freak that others could point and laugh at. She was glad that Dylena never made fun of her.

“Then what am I, an un-used cog?” A thin-man said with a laugh, moving out from behind Uncle Aevar’s massive bulk.

“But it’s the best un-used cog, Uncle Legato,” she said, making herself smile. She could always hide behind that smile, like nothing ever got to her.

“A true Fenrisian compliment,” Uncle Aevar laughed. He looked at Dylena, who was in a deep curtsy. “Oh, knock it off, already.”

“We heard you got sick again, and we wanted to help you fight the good fight,” Uncle Legato said.

“I’m not a girl anymore, I’m fourteen,” Laura groaned. Now she was a princess who had special treatment from a Priest of Mars. She would never hear the end of it.  

“Tough shit, we’re helping,” Uncle Aevar said. “How’s your studies coming?”

“Okay.”

“She really _is_ growing up,” Uncle Aevar said to Legato. “She’s using fewer and fewer words.”

“Turning into a true young adult,” Uncle Legato chuckled.

“What’s your friend’s name, girl?” Uncle Aevar asked.

“Dylena, lord.”

“Got a strange smell to you,” he said, leaning over to sniff her. “That some kind of perfume or some other shit--?”

“Y-yes milord,” was the quick response. Dylena spoke so fast she cut Uncle Aevar off. “It’s just a perfume. Nothing more!”

“Well, stop using it. Smells damn weird,” he said. “How’s our girl doing?”

“She’s one of the smartest girls in the monastery,” she blurted. Laura groaned. She hated the praise, the way it made her guts twist. She was just so special and great, she _had_ to be praised.

“Whenever Sergeant Julas asks a question, she seems to know all the answers, even though he doesn’t like some of them,” Dylena continued. “She studies hard, works hard, and gets the best grades anyone has ever seen. She’s kind, pretty and very good at fighting.”

“Sounds like you have a crush,” Uncle Aevar laughed. Dylena burned beet-red. “What are you studying for?”

“I-I was thinking of joining the Orders Famulous.”

“Ah, a consul of the nobility, eh? Good choice. No offense, but you don’t look like you’d do well in a scrap,” he said. “Use what you’ve got. There’s no shame in admitting you’d be a bad fit for fighting.”

“These won’t hurt you,” Uncle Legato said. He set down both cases and opened them, revealing syringes and vials.  “They’re just boosters.”

The needles did hurt, and they made her arm sore and cold. But Laura would never admit it. She had to be strong and hard, just like her mother. Just like a true Fenrisian.

“There, done,” he smiled, handing her a bottle. “You should be feeling better in no time. Be sure to take these pills every week.”

She hated them all for dropping by unannounced. Even one would know that Uncle Aevar, _the Blasphemer_ , was there to check up on her. She could almost hear the curses, the insults from everyone in the convent. She would never hear the end of it.

“Thanks, Uncle Legato.” She wrapped his thin frame in a polite hug. “You, too, Uncle Aevar.”

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” he smiled. “Kemuel here’s gonna keep you company.”

“What?” No, they couldn’t do that!

“You’re sick. If your mother finds out you’ve gotten worse, it’ll be our heads. So, he’s gonna watch you for a couple days.”

“All the girls are gonna make fun of me!” She protested. As if she needed something _else_ to make everyone hate her for.

“Tough shit. Tell ‘em to shut up. If they pick a fight, you know what to do,” he laughed. He leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “If you get worse, just tell Kemuel. He’ll send for us.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled. 

“Keep up your studies. And if you can drive Julas crazy a bit, give him Hel for us,” Uncle Aevar smiled, patting her head. He and Uncle Legato left, leaving Uncle Kemuel standing by her bed.

“You’re not going to stay here, are you?” She mumbled.

“With your mother worrying over you, it was either this, or having her risk her duties by trying to sneak out to see you,” he rumbled. “With the work load the Mechanicus has given them, they would never tolerate a single moment away from the forge. To keep her focused, I shall perform my duties here, and ensure that the convent meets our criteria.”

“B-b-but a Custode?” Dylena stammered, playing with her hair, endlessly pulling it over her ears. It was like she was afraid that her hair would vanish in an instant, leaving her ears exposed. “In the girl’s dorm?”

“I shall stand guard at the entrance to the wing, worry not.”

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this,” Laura groaned, flopping back on the bed. The Princess and her Guard. Just what she fucking needed. She’ll never get any other friends now.

But some feeling deep inside her knew the pain, and knew it far too well.

 

* * *

 

Aevar studied his schematics again, making sure to duck underneath the recently finished cross bracing. Maybe he shouldn’t have overbuilt the damn thing. Construction on his new capitol ship was slow going, and the Mechanicus wanted results last month.

“It sounds like your work has gotten the best of you.”

“Huh. Inquisitor Parsef. If this doesn’t beat all.”

The Inquisitor walked through the ship, moving around servitors that were hard at work to finish the support structures of the massive ship.

“Slow going?” Parsef asked.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you know more about the construction of this ship than anyone but me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Parsef said. “I probably know _more_ about this than you.”

“Except for where it counts.”

“Is that jealousy that I hear in your voice?”

“Still fucking sore that you had to be the bigger man.”

“That was nearly six years ago,” Parsef said. “You Space Wolves hold grudges a long time.”

“Bah, six years is nothing. And it’s easy to hold a grudge when the other side won’t let you forget it, right?”

Parsef chuckled as Aevar glared at him.

“I figured I’d ask you what your plans for the ship were,” Parsef said, “considering the Mechanicus wanted it finished last month.”

“Well, the Fabricator-General wants a big new ship, and even bigger guns, so I figure I’d give him what he wants.”

“A big ship with even bigger guns,” Parsef laughed. “It’s so simple I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“We Vlka aim to please in the most straightforward way possible.”

“What sort or armaments have you planned for this?”

“I started out thinking of some weapons good for orbital bombardment, but that got me thinking,” Aevar said, stroking his beard. “The Mechanicus might not want a giant bomber, one that was only good for exterminatus. So, I started throwing some ship-to-ship weapons onto it, both point-defense and anti-ship cannons and batteries.”

“And you took out the bombing bays?”

“Na, I kept those.” Parsef gave him a look. “Never know when you might need ‘em, yea?”

“Then the ship is carrying its weight in munitions. Interesting,” Parsef said. “What about defenses?”

“I’m throwing everything at it. Just finished with the skeleton; it’s got about two hundred tons of honeycombed adamantium cross bracing, and I’m making the shield generators as powerful as I can without having the damn thing blow up. This thing’ll take a beating from Morkai himself.”

“And what will you call this monstrosity you’re making?”

“I was thinking _The Stanchion of Fall_.”

“That’s a bit elegant for a Space Wolf.”

“The Sisters like their flare, so it seemed a decent choice, since they’ll probably be the ones who’ll end up getting it.”

“Why ‘fall?’”

“This planet doesn’t have much of a winter. But the fall is pretty nice.”

“Because of the changing seasons?”

“Because it’s as cold as it gets.”

“Fucking Space Wolves.”

“Fucking Inquisition,” Aevar grinned. “Now let me get back to work, will you? I got a whole ship to build, and I’m barely done with the skeleton.”

 

* * *

 

“I still don’t feel good,” Laura mumbled. Her throat was as dry as a rock, and the practice sword she had felt heavier than normal. “I think I’m still sick.”

“It is important to maintain a rigorous training schedule,” Aunt Geist said. Today, she wore the face of a simple cleaning woman. The only thing that made her stand out was the practice sword she carried. “We need to stay with our plan.”

“Can’t I just take a day off?” Laura begged. “I’m tired, Julas wants us to work on three projects, and I want to take a bath. _And_ I have an astro-geography quiz this week.”

“Laura,” Aunt Geist said, a stern tone in her voice, “what did this one say about our craft?”

“’That a strong mind comes from a strong body, and strong instincts come from strong training,’” she groaned.

“Excellent. We must remain vigilant against any attacks from xenos or traitors, for they are always planning our downfall. Now. On your guard.”

Laura had barely brought her sword up when Aunt Geist knocked it down. She wanted to curl up in bed with some of momma’s tea.

“The enemy will give you no respite,” she said as Laura picked up her sword. “Do not expect a single luxury from them.”

Laura was starting to hate her aunt. She picked up her sword, and as Aunt Geist sprung forward to knock her sword down, she hit back, swinging with all her might against the wooden sword.

Only the sword wasn’t there. The assassin spun the blade around, dipping it under her sword, and firmly rapped her stomach.

“Do not over-commit to an attack,” she said. “When you fail, you will leave yourself exposed.”

Now she was _really_ hating her aunt. But something tickled her spine; a feeling, telling her how to stand. It was so slight, the little girl never recognized her stance was changing. Laura blocked the first two attacks with surprising skill. But her aunt was still able to land a light hit on her arm.

“Better,” Aunt Geist said. “This one is curious: where did you learn to stand like that?”

“Like what?”

Now Aunt Geist was looking at her strangely. The girl had changed her stance to a much more defensive one, and she did it without any instructions.

“It matters not,” she said. “It was good. You need to stand like that more. Be sure to keep the weight off your front foot, put it more on the back. Now that you are warmed up, the lesson can begin.”

A shiver ran through Laura. She was still sick, she knew it. She wanted to lie down, but Aunt Geist would glare at her. So, she had to learn. She had to fight. She had to stick with the plan, whatever that plan was. She wished someone would tell her.

 

* * *

 

“What was the purpose of the Primarchs?” Sergeant Julas demanded. “You.”

“To be his generals, the carriers of his will as he re-assembled the lost colonies of man,” the boy replied.

“Excellent.” He continued to pace the front of the room as his perpetually-tired eyes scanned the room, his armor making the ground shake. As usual, it was shined to a polish, having never been used since as long as Laura could remember. If she was eighteen now, that was over ten years.

A feeling twisted through her; was his armor for show? A mere status symbol? Uncle Aevar and Croan always said that armor was to be used, not shown off.

“Now what led the traitor Primarchs astray?” A feeling of failure, embarrassment twisted through her gut. Laura didn’t raise her hand with the class. “You.”

“The ruinous powers. They tempted them with lies, and they fell for them.”

“And what does Chaos only do?”

“Lie, manipulate and deceive.”

What good little citizens they were becoming.

Now where did _that_ feeling come from…?

“What did the Arch-Traitor do to divide the Imperium at the beginning of the Heresy? Laura, why have you not raised your hand?”

“I want to give someone else the chance to answer,” she lied. Her stomach was in knots, more so than normal. She was feeling embarrassed, for some reason. It sure didn’t help that Uncle-Sergeant Julas picked her out by name. Just the Princess being lectured by her Ultramarine teacher. No need to go over and talk to her, she’s happy alone with the Angels of Death.

“Very noble of you, but you have not answered a single question,” Sergeant Julas said. “What action did the Arch-Traitor take, after the Drop-Site Massacre, and why?”

“He ordered an attack of the Ultramar sector, to pin down the Ultramarines, prevent them from helping the Siege of Terra.”

“He did attack the region of Ultramar, but your reasoning is wrong,” Sergeant Julas said. “He was driven by jealousy, out of envy of the position of success and power that Primarch Roboute Guilliman had.”

“Forgive me, but I believe it was to stop the Ultramarines from participating in the Battle for Terra.”

No one spoke as Sergeant Julas gave her a hard look.

“You break with what the history books have written?” He said.

“I feel that’s not the right answer.”

“It matters not what you feel, what matters is the correct answer,” he said. “You will need to study your history better; the Arch-Traitor attacked out of jealousy.”

Laura stared into the distance, lest Sergeant Julas took her glare as a challenge. She was right, she felt it in her bones. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her classmates silently laughing at her; the pretty princess had failed a question. She hated them all.

“What happened at the end of the Siege of Terra? You.”

 

* * *

 

The door to Parsef’s private study was opened. Geist held the door open, and the Blasphemer walked through, followed by Helfist and Croan.

“Nice of you to join us,” Parsef said. He barely had to look up from his reports; if anyone else wanted to gain access to his chambers, Geist would have let him know.

“Aye, nice to meet the big man on the mountain,” Aevar said. “Didn’t tell me that Lynia would be here.”

“I thought I would surprise you,” the Canoness said. She was standing next to Parsef’s desk, waiting for them to arrive.

“And our favorite Custode is here, too,” Helfist said. “How’s guard duty, Kemuel?”

“Same as ever,” the Custode said. “Peaceful.”

“Such a boring word.”

“To an Angel of Death, yes. To a bodyguard, it is bliss.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Let’s keep our tempers to a minimum,” Parsef said. “There is terrible news from Terra. It appears that the Despoiler is making a move.”

The atmosphere in the room grew tense.

“The report in my hand says that the warp is becoming very unstable, with storms brewing around Cadia, threatening to cut it off from Imperium control,” Parsef said, “and by the time I have received these reports, they will already be outdated. Ships have gone missing, and astropaths die in larger and larger numbers. If you were to ask me personally, this would be the prime time to launch another Black Crusade, if they have not already begun.

“But news of the potential new Black Crusade has only been told to the people standing in this room,” Parsef said. “We can’t let it spread, less we begin a mass panic.”

“Why tell us?” Croan asked. “We are exiled. Unless the High Lords of Terra have had a sudden change of heart, we are to remain in the system.”

“’A change of heart?’ The way they hold a grudge?” Helfist laughed.

“With the new Crusade, we will need to step up weapon productions,” Parsef said. “The Cataphractii armor is going to be needed more now than ever, along with the weapons that you have been manufacturing.”

“Then we have excellent news,” Croan smiled. “We have tested the first replica Volkite weapon, and have met with success.”

“You have?”

“Aye, that we have,” Aevar said. “If it gets through armor, the thread is as good as cut. No idea why it works, but who cares? I’m also putting the last touches on _the Stanchion of Fall_ ; should be done in a week or so.”

“Then we’re be like any forge world in this crusade,” Helfist said. “Damn. Kind of wanted a real fight.”

“Careful what you wish for, whelp; you just might get it.”

“I’ll bring the entire planet up to a standing alert,” Lynia said. “We’ll open all of our weapon stocks. Every Sister will be armed, and ready to move at the slightest notice. The Planetary Defense Force will be mobilized, and secondary and tertiary defenses will be readied. Supplies will be passed out in event of a siege.”

“I’ll get the Claws to twiddle their thumbs extra-hard,” Helfist said. “Oh, shit, we’re gonna be getting a new pack in here soon. They’re gonna give us fucking Hel for missing on a Crusade.”

“May I recommend frequent patrols of the planet’s space,” Kemuel said.

“So they’ll be doing the PDF’s job.”

“They will be _bolstering_ the PDF’s defenses,” the Custode corrected. “Not to mention raising morale.”

“Eh, could be worse,” Helfist shrugged.

“All the while, my Custode brothers and I will be examining the defenses that we have been building,” Kemuel said. “One last Blood Game should ensure that the defenses are set, then we are truly ready for any siege.”

“We all have our duties,” Parsef said. “No one needs to know about the Crusade. Not until we have received official word that it has begun from the Imperial Army. There is no need to incite panic. Everything must continue as normal.”

 

* * *

 

Laura pushed at reality, felt a trickle of power run through her veins, and she reached out, lifting the massive adamantium ingot into the air, and placing it at the top of the stack of identical ingots. There were five long, five tall, and five deep, all rejects from Uncle Aevar’s forge-city. She felt a pang of homesickness; she wanted to go back, to see her family and her mother.

But she was a grown woman now, or would be in a few days. Aunt Lynia said she couldn’t be thinking of such things, she should be worrying about her friends; if she had any other than Dylena. Fifteen years of schooling, and she only had one friend to show for it, all because of her aunts and uncles.

“Excellent,” Justicar Eadwin said, impassive in his silver armor. “We are making a sanctified psyker out of you.”

“My thanks, milord.”

“This concludes your daily lessons. Go about your day, and remember: there are no Knights of Titan.”

She’d been hearing that since she was walking upright. She had heard that she must keep her power hidden, to always use her ‘inside voice.’ She was told to never tell others what her uncles did, or who her actual father was. So much of her life was a secret. 

Laura left the hidden room and made her way to the main branch of the school, tracing her way through twisted hallways that even the servitors forgot about. She made it back just as the bell rang, showing the end of lessons.

Everyone left the rooms in an orderly mess. They were quickly reaching conscription age; conscription to be commisars, that is. They were the educated, trained to be leaders, not just simple soldiers.

Of course, there were plenty of girls who were claimed by the Sisters of Battle, too. They wore the robes of their chosen order; many were non-militant, but a few militant Sisters-in-training were there, no doubt being groomed to lead, just as she was. Seeing her, the Princess, made them give her as much a berth as possible. She hated it.

“Laura!”

She turned, looking through the crowd. It was easy to pick out Dylena, with her blonde hair, bracelet and Order Famulous aspirant robes.

“Dylena,” she smiled. “You’re usually not free now. The Sisters gave you some free time?”

“They like the work I’m doing, so I have a little time,” Dylena said, pushing her hair back as if she was showing off her massive, golden earrings.

“Nice try, Aunt Geist,” Laura grind. “Dylena never shows off her earrings.”

That only made ‘Dylena’ smile more.

“Excellent. This one is glad you can spot small discrepancies and behaviors. You are truly your mother’s daughter.” She wrapped Laura in a big embrace. “Your mother and this one worry about you. Are you feeling better? Has your latest sickness passed?”

“Thanks, Aunt Geist,” she said, hugging the assassin. It was hard to love her family sometimes, but Laura could feel her aunt’s love for her. It helped that her sixth sense, either her mutant brain or her talent with the spirits, could pick up on the affection. Her aunt might hide her expressions, but her emotions were laid bare to her. “I think I’m getting a little better. How is mom and everyone?”

“Maeva is hard at work, building more weapons and armor with Croan and Legato,” Geist said. “Aevar has completed his new capital ship, and is beginning to welcome the new guards that are coming to relieve the current guard. And your graduation is fast approaching. Are you ready to join the Sororitas?”

Like she would be a Sister of Battle. Everyone she loved seemed to want her to do something. Aunt Lynia wanted her for the Sisters, her mother wanted her to join the Guard and be a great warrior, she even had the feeling that Uncle Parsef would want her for the Inquisition. Even Uncle Aevar seemed to have some plan for her, but she had no idea what it was.

She just wanted her own life, made by her own hands. Laura did her best not to scowl; she’d run away, join the PDF. Maybe there she could be treated like a normal girl.

That, and she could _never_ stomach all the praying the Sisters did.

“No, not really,” she said. “I’m just worried that I’ll be a bad Sister.”

            “Your Aunt Lynia often says that she was not always a Canoness; but if you were to ask this one, it is well and good that you know your limitations. Now you may improve yourself. Oh, and your mother wants you home next week. One last birthday before you join.”

“I bet she’s been waiting for this for a long time,” Laura said, laughing. “Always saying I need a true Fenrisian birthday, celebrating my ‘ascent to womanhood.’”

“She also extends the invitation to your classmates and friends.”

Friends? There was only Dylena, and Dylena’s friends that could put up with her. Thinking about it made her depressed. Maybe she could mention that there’d be booze for them; that should get people to come.

“You think they wouldn’t mind being around a bunch of Vlka Fenryka? Being around Sergeant Julas makes their knees shake; the Rout might just do them in.”

“As your mother says, ‘it is not every day one becomes a woman. If they are not there, then send them to Hel, for they will be dead to us.’”

“Good old mom,” Laura smiled. “I’ll see who wants to go.”

_I’ll see who’s polite and weak-willed enough to say ‘yes.’_

“Excellent. I shall tell the Vlka to behave themselves as best as possible.”

“So that means only a half-dozen fights.”

“Your mother says that would be the best-case scenario.”

“Great. This’ll be a party to remember. _If_ we remember it.”

 

* * *

 

Something nudged Dylena. She groaned.

Whatever it was, it nudged her again. Everything hurt, and she could feel the exhaustion worm its way through her body. She wanted to sleep. She tried rolling over, but the thing was back, shaking her.

“Hey, you still alive?”

Her head felt too small. Way too damned small. Just blinking was painful. Oh Throne, what happened…?

“Come on, Dylena, show me you’re okay.”

Light shone like daggers in her eyes. The room felt like it was spinning.

“Ugh, make it stop.”

“Yea, you’re fine.” Dylena realized it was Laura. “Just sore and in pain.”

She tried to talk, but it felt like her throat was sandpaper, her tongue a mound of putty. Her ears rang, and her head was swimming. Oh, holy Throne, she just wanted to sleep.

“W-what…?”

“’What happened?’ Last night, you became an honorary Fenrisian, that’s what.”

Something was pushed into her hands.

“It’s water. Drink.”

“Last night?” The water must have been blessed; it was the best thing she ever had.

“We partied, and partied pretty hard too, as my mom says. Which, for normal people I guess, means ending up sleeping on the ground.”

Wait, ground?

Dylena’s heart jump in her chest and she sat up, reaching for her ears. Fortunately, her large, ornate golden eagle-wing earrings were there, covering her ears from tip to lobe. She took a few moments to feel the cold metal on her ears, and her bracelet on her wrist. All was good.

“You’re worried about your earrings?” Laura asked, barely holding back a laugh.

“I…like my earrings,” she mumbled. Her ears had to be covered, always. Her mother made her promise. “They’re all I have left of my mother.”

“Not what I meant,” Laura said, pointing at her dress.

The beautiful, silken Order Famulous black dress was a rumpled mess. It was a flattering, little black dress made for royal meetings in an Imperial court, certainly not meant to be slept in. One strap was hanging from her shoulder, threatening to pull itself down, and the leg material was riding up like it was trying to run away. It nearly ran up to her underwear.

“This isn’t funny,” she muttered, burning with embarrassment. She hastily covered herself.

 “Man, if only you could see your makeup. This has to be the first time I’ve ever seen you so poised, and I gotta tell you, it’s pretty great.”

Dylena pulled out a compact and nearly cried. Her entire makeup, from mascara to foundation, was smearing, running like crazy. It was never meant to stand up to…to whatever it was that the Fenrisians claimed was a ‘simple party.’

Laura handed her a damp napkin so she could clean herself up.

“Thanks,” Dylena mumbled. “What happened? We flew in, the…the junior marines were rowdy…”

“You don’t remember that?” Laura pointed to two Astartes-sized, up-ended empty casks of Fenrisian ale. Next to it were four empty casks labelled ‘Mjod - Vlka only!’

“Oh, Emperor, _now_ I remember.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. Check it out.”

Dylena poked her head above the wooden table. The entire room was in disarray. There were boys from their classes that were passed out on the tables, hanging off with very little keeping them in place.

Many of the girls from their class were in similar dire straits, having passed out either with their own circle of friends, or on a couple of cases, over a few boys. Some odd articles of clothing were lying draped over chairs, tables, or one of the passed-out forms. Many girls were nearly naked.

“Emperor almighty…”

“Don’t worry, by the time the stripping happened, many were too drunk to do anything but pass out,” Laura said. “They took it off mostly to please the Claws.”

“Claws?”

“The young marines?” Laura pointed to the other end of the hall, where ten massive Space Marines were lying, just as passed out as the boys and girls. Many were covered in what looked like black ink; phallic symbols were drawn all over their faces, along with the strange Fenrisian runes.

“Ugh, I want to die. And how on the Throne are you just fine?”

“Hey, I’m hungover, too,” Laura said. “Just not as much as everyone else. What? It’s a Fenrisian thing.”

“You weren’t born on Fenris.”

“Yea, well, might as well been raised there,” Laura mumbled. “Would’ve been better than here, where I’m a freak.”

Dylena’s conditioning kicked in; a change had to be made. Laura had to have a higher opinion of herself. That’s what she was there for, wasn’t it?

“You’re not a freak,” Dylena said, taking her hand.

“Only reason most everyone came was to drink.”

“Hey, come on, you’re not the only one who’s different.”

“Why do you keep saying that? Every time, you say that. You’re the one with all the friends. Shit, why are you even my friend? Thought being the princess would’ve made me a total outsider.”

From the end of the room came a mighty groan. Lord Ironclaws rose from his chair, stretching all the while.

“Well, look who’s up,” he yawned. “Thought you’d be dead to the world, Laura.”

“Not a chance, Uncle Aevar,” she grinned. In a split second, Laura put her mask back on, hiding all the pain behind a smile. “Had to see Dylena completely wrecked.”

“Dylena? Oh, the pretty girl who smells funny,” he said. “Thought I told you to stop wearing that perfume, smells too strange.”

Dylena wanted to lay down. She wanted nothing more than to just stop and lay down and let herself die. But the doors to the meal hall opened, demanding her attention.

“Inquisitor,” Dylena stammered, going into a deep curtsey. She was so hungover, she nearly fell over.

“Hey, Parsef,” Laura said. How many people did she know on a first-name basis?

“Hello, Laura. Dylena,” the Inquisitor said. His face was stony, betraying no emotion. He scanned the room until he saw Lord Ironclaws rousing Lord Helfist.

“Parsef? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Laura asked.

“Something’s always wrong,” he said. “It’s part of the job. I need to talk to the Blasphemer. But first, I have to give you my present.”

He held out his hand, and gave her a red and black-beaded rosary. At the end of the rosary was an obsidian _“I,”_ with a skull emblazed on it. It was the symbol of the Inquisition. He was recruiting her.

Laura stared at the pendant, unsure of what to make of it. With her mind finally waking up, Dylena could see that this was not a good course, leading to a worse outcome. Her future couldn’t end with her in the Inquisition. Her mother had said that Laura needs to realize her potential, to become the new sacrifice. Laura couldn’t do that in the Inquisition.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” Parsef said. “But I’ll need to hear from you within the next few days.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You are valuable. You could help protect the Imperium, both from heretics and xenos…” Dylena squirmed, “…as well as from traitors within. Think about it.”

Dylena waited until he was out of ear shot.

“Do you think you’ll join?” She asked.

“I don’t know,” Laura said.

An adjustment was needed; the time to act was now.

“Just…be careful, okay?” Dylena said. “The Inquisition is a force of good, but I’ve heard a few things from some of the Sisters, during our training. Terrible things they have to do; what you have to do, who you will have to kill, or what planets have to be sacrificed to protect the Imperium.”

Laura stared at the rosary, but quickly pocketed it when she heard the heavy footfalls of Space Marines. Even out of armor, they made the ground thump.

Lord Ironclaws and Helfist were walking with Inquisitor Parsef. All had a stone-like look to them.

“What’s the matter?” Dylena asked.

“It’s Cadia,” Lord Helfist said. “Fuck-mothering Cadia. They’re under attack.”

Suddenly Dylena’s hangover didn’t seem so bad.

“It’s the Thirteenth Black Crusade,” Inquisitor Parsef said. “It’s finally begun.”


	24. The Breaking Storm

Aevar and Helfist looked out at the landing pad. Three ships broke through the atmosphere; as with all their changes of the guard, it was two Thunderhawks that carried Julas’ replacement men, and a Stormwolf transport with the new Blood Claws. The ships landed in tandem on the pad. Word of the Black Crusade had surely made both pilots work with each other instead of against; no doubt Julas would appreciate their newfound comradery. The Thunderhawks’ doors opened, and the new marine guards exited the ship. The Stormwolf’s ramp dropped, and the wolves walked out.

The new Marines were from a host of Chapters, many appearing to be from Third or even Fourth founding. The Claws, like every pack of new blood, were a motley bunch, but the Grey Hunter stood out. He was as pale as pale could be; the sun looked like it would cook him in a second.

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Helfist said. “Hold the fucking vox, I know that pale gaze anywhere. That you, Wight?”

Wight grunted, small smile on his nearly translucent face.

“Shit, would you look at that?” Helfist laughed. “Just seemed like yesterday that you were a mouthy Blood Claw that I had to knock into place. You made it to Grey Hunter real quick now, didn’t you?” He tapped the pauldron that held a red-and-black mark. “Still near mute, eh? Thought the scouts would take you for their own.”

“Like fighting more,” Wight said.

“Good answer,” Aevar laughed. “Welcome, brother. Too bad you’re stuck on a shit assignment, especially with the Crusade starting up.”

“Eh, training,” Wight grunted, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t worry about that, we got plenty of things to keep the Claws busy,” Aevar said. “Have they had a chance to do any boarding action?”

Wight grunted, shaking his head ‘no.’

“Well, you’re in luck then! We got a brand new ship that needs to be put through its paces; running some boarding actions would help the navy pukes get their shit together as well as the Claws. Don’t get too comfortable, we’re gonna be playing in space tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

The heat from the central forge seemed hotter than ever. With her fresh cold, the warmth was so very welcome. Laura could only guess that with the new Black Crusade being waged, it was only natural that every forge was running at full-capacity. She got a little closer to the open forges as she made her way down to the central pit. Uncle Aevar was talking to a few tech priests. Seeing her out of the corner of his eye, he excused himself.

“What brings you down here, Laura?” Her uncle asked. “Would have thought the day-after hangover would be all about resting and being lazy, not going into the depths of a forge.”

“I’m not that bad, Uncle Aevar,” she said. “I just…I’d like your opinion.”

“Pretty serious, huh? Let’s talk somewhere a little quieter.”

They walked through the forge, heading towards one of Uncle Aevar’s work rooms. He closed the door behind her, and the sound of the forge faded away until it was a dull roar; the room had thick stone walls, blocking out much of the noise. As soon as he closed the door, Laura pulled out the rosary that had the mark of the Inquisition. Uncle Aevar stared at it, his eyes hard.

“Parsef gave that to you, huh? Figures.” He scratched his beard. “So, not only does your Aunt Lynia wan you, but now the Inquisition does, too. You’ve got some choices to make, eh? How does it feel?”

“I…I don’t know if I want to join the Inquisition,” she said. “I mean, I thought he’d try to recruit me, but to actually get the rosary, to actually get the offer…”

Laura shook her head.

“Dylena told me stories; stories of the good work they do, yes, but she also tells me horror stories she hears. Things some aspirants have to do, some things that Sisters are sworn to do. And then there’s Months of Shame you and Uncle Helfist tell me about. Deciding who lives and who dies, all just to fight the possibility of a Chaos incursion? That’s…that’s too much.”

“It’s too much for anyone. Anyone but the Emperor, maybe,” he shrugged. “Think you can be the one to give the order of Exterminatus?”

“If it’s worth it,” she mumbled.

“That ain’t for you to decide. Can you order a planet to be killed?”

“What do you mean, ‘it isn’t for me to decide?’”

“The Inquisition worries itself with how things can fall to Chaos,” he said. “I told you about the Months of Shame. Of how they murdered, sterilized and conscripted the survivors of Armageddon. They did those fucking things because they _thought_ that cultists might be hiding in the survivors. Trust me, I was there.

“They sterilized millions of men and women, then working them to death, they destroyed dozens of ships carrying survivors, and they tried to track down any survivors to the ends of the galaxy, all on the off-chance that _one_ of ‘em was a traitor. Can you do that?”

Then it was true; it was just what Dylena warned her about.

“I…I don’t think so.”

“If you hesitated for even a second, I’d say you weren’t cut out for it.”

“You don’t seem mad.”

“Mad? Why the fuck would I be mad?” He asked, grinning. “I’d be more worried if you said you _could_ ; no hesitation, no remorse, that isn’t a trait a person should have. Killing an entire world just because one of them _might_ be trouble isn’t the way to do things. We’d run out of planets damn quick that way. No, the Inquisition is dirty work, take it from a Vlka.”

He wrapped her up in a big hug, but was careful of his strength.

“I’m damn glad we raised you right. Means all our hard work and planning worked out. I’m damn proud of you, Laura.”

She smiled, but something was wrong. Laura could feel it in her gut, some twisting feeling, of…of something, of a plan. Like something was going just as it was supposed to. The feeling caught her off-guard; so much so that she nearly missed the pang of sadness in Uncle Aevar’s eyes. Or was it regret? Regret that was centered on her? Did he regret something about her?

“Well, your aunt is chomping at the bit to get you into an Aspirant’s robes,” he grinned. “You ready for that?”

Just like that, the moment was gone. But she was still smiling. It felt good to be doing the right thing. Leave killing planets to someone else. Besides, she had an escape to plan; she had to run away to the PDF, and with the new Black Crusade, maybe she had a more than a decent chance.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Traveling…no, being _forced_ to move from place to place, it doesn’t seem like something like a good time. What are you going to do about the new Claws?”

“Helfist and I are gonna take them out in _Stanchion_ ,” he said. “Do some basic maneuvers with the ship, launch an assault craft, teach ‘em some boarding action, shoot some rocks, basic training shit to keep ‘em occupied. With Blood Claws, you have to.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the new ship.

 _Stanchion_ was so new, it still smelled like adamantium ore. Even the docking bay smelled of pure metal instead of engine oil, grease and fuel. Since it was a big ship, the docking bay was equally huge. It was so big, it could even fit a small rogue trader’s vessel in it. The half-dozen landing ships seemed positively tiny, to say nothing of the men and women who helped staff the ship.

A Thunderhawk, on loan from the Sisters, floated through the void shields and landed with a clang. The new group of Blood Claws trudged out, but Wight and Helfist were laughing.

“Now you know why we run you hard,” Helfist roared. “Zero-gee is a hard bitch to master.”

“Let me guess,” Aevar said, “they fell a lot and made great fools of themselves.”

“Full of piss and vinegar, and not much else. Many of them missed their mark and jumped into the great black yonder,” Helfist said. “Took us a few hours to fish ‘em from the void, but at least it stopped them from bitching about missing the Crusade.”

“’Missing the Crusade?’ Don’t tell me you _want_ the Crusade to come here.”

“Alright, maybe I do,” Helfist groaned. “Just to give us something to do.”

“I told you to be careful, whelp. You might just get what you ask for. You really want that?”

 _This is the_ Stanchion of Fall _, calling Lord Ironclaws_. _Lord Ironclaws, do you read me?_ The vox crackled.

“Hold on a second,” Aevar said. He slipped his helmet on and flipped to the vox channel. _Yes, I’m here,_ Stanchion _. Go ahead._

 _A ship has just dropped out of the warp, a rogue trader from the looks of it on the auspex scanner,_ the mortal replied. _We do not have any records of any incoming traders, but they’re being chased by an unknown ship, and are broadcasting an SOS._

_Play it for me._

_‘Mayday, mayday, mayday,’_ a woman’s voice said. ‘ _This is the rogue trader vessel_ Johnathan _, requesting assistance. The Arch-Enemy is here, they’re attempting to board our ship. Please, send any help that you can.’_

_The message loops, milord._

_The_ Johnathan? Aevar said. _That can’t…damn, this universe is smaller than I thought!_

_I’m…sorry, milord?_

_Move the_ Stanchion _into position to support the ship,_ he ordered. _We’ll help beat back the boarding party._

_I beg your pardon, milord, but it is a simple rogue trader, hardly worth the effort._

_I’m not giving my pardon for that,_ Aevar snapped. _There are civilians out there, and it sounds like they’re in a damn good bind. That means we go and help them, understand?_

_Yes, milord._

_Good. Keep me on the channel, I’ll be part of the boarding party._ Aevar closed the vox and pulled his helm off.

“Change of plans, Claws.”

The line of raw recruits ground to a halt as they turned around.

“There’s a rogue trader out there, under attack from some fucking heretics.” Just hearing the word ‘heretic’ got them to bristle. “We’re gonna go out there, save those traders and kill those fuckers. Sound good?”

The Claws roared.

“So get our your chainswords and get back to the ship, we’re gonna be working on that boarding action faster than we thought!”

“Some rogue traders need help?” Helfist said. He was nearly bowled over by the rambunctious recruits. “We’re in the right place at the right time now, eh?”

“I told you, be careful what you wish for: you just might get it. Oh, and it gets better: the ship we’re saving? It’s the _Johnathan_.”

“Wait…really?”

“Aye, really.”

“Hot damn, never thought we’d be seeing them again! Hey, mind your turn!”

The Claws were pushing and shoving, but listened to Helfist. They boarded the Thunderhawk in an organize bum rush and bolted themselves in. Aevar locked the bay door behind him, and bolted himself into place.

“Hold on, wolves,” the pilot said. “We’re gonna make space-tracks to catch up with the traders.”

The engines roared to life, and the inertia pulled at them all as they shot out of _Stanchion_. The pilot must be fighting for any kind of control; she was giving the Thunderhawk enormous amounts of fuel, and the ship responded in kind.

 _Rogue Trader_ Johnathan _, this is_ the Stanchion of Fall _,_ the vox crackled. _We have you on auspex and are moving to assist. Space Marines are being deployed to you to repel your borders._

 _Much thanks,_ Stanchion. _Please tell the Angels of Death to move as fast as they can; we’re leaking atmosphere and multiple parties have already boarded us. We’re trying to hold them off at the mess hall and cargo bay._

 _Don’t you worry,_ Johnathan, Aevar said. _We’ll be there before you know it._

“Touchdown in five,” the pilot called.

“Making good time, pilot,” Helfist said. “We’ll get you a proper drink when this is all done.”

“Hate to be a stick in the mud, but I took an oath of temperance,” the pilot replied.

“You Sisters are no fun at all.”

“Fun isn’t part of the job. Although I will take some communion wine.”

“Oh, so _wine_ is fine?” Helfist yelled.

“Please, milord, it is simple _communion_ wine.”

“I like this sister!”

“The ship is coming up,” the pilot said. “Venting atmosphere in ten seconds. Get ready to move.”

Air leaked out of the ship, readying for the assault. The claws unbolted themselves and pushed to the front.

 _You said they fell into the void the first time around; think they’re gonna fall again?_ Aevar asked, opening a private vox channel.

 _No,_ Wight said. Q _uick learners._

_How quick you think they are?_

_Maintenance, ten hours,_ the new Grey Hunter said.

 _That’s some faith you got in them,_ Helfist said. _I’ll take that bet._

The doors slid open, silent in the void. The Claws launched themselves towards the ship, their helms marking where the airlock was. They landed, solidly, with no one bouncing off or missing the ship, their boots magnetically locking them to the hull.

 _You’re right, they_ are _quick learners,_ Helfist said, touching down on the trader’s ship. _Shit._ _Guess that means I’m doing your maintenance, then?_

Wight laughed.

The airlock slid open, and the Claws pushed their way inside. It cycled, and opened. The few traders working the airlock gasped, either from the Claws or from the attacking heretics.

“The arch-enemy,” Helfist said. “Where are they?”

“T-t-they pushed their way to the mess hall, down there.”

They barely got the words out before the Claws broke into a dead run, changing towards the battle. Down the corridor they ran, the sounds of battle steadily growing. The snap of lasgun fire and the bark of bolters steadily increased until the Claws reached the meal hall.

The hall was a desperate battle, with crimson-armored berserkers facing hastily-made defensive lines. The heretic’s chain-axes growled at a mean idle, their bolt pistols chattering as they moved closer to the humans.

“Berserkers,” Helfist spat. “Watch their axes.”

He barely got the warning out. The Claws launched themselves at the berserkers with reckless abandon. Wight dutifully jumped in, protecting the wild Claws from the worst of the attacks. He had learned much.

Two berserkers howled and changed at Aevar. He blocked the axes with Katla and a servo-arm, then brought the thunder hammer across his chest, crushing one berserker into a mess of blood and metal.

Light danced from Helfist as he summoned the power of Fenris. He let one berserker land a square blow at his neck, but with the blessing firmly in place, his skin was like raw iron. The teeth of the chain-axe spun furiously, trying to find purchase but not getting any.

Helfist lashed out, landing a square blow on the berserker. His warped helm caved under Helfist’s hook, splitting as the berserker fell to his knees. Something solid and wet fell to the ground. The berserker gurgled as he realized it was part of his jaw. He tried to reach for it, but was killed by Helfist punching through his skull.

 “ _Fenris hjolda!_ ” Aevar roared.

_“Fenris hjolda!”_

“The Emperor protects!” The traders yelled, relief heavy in their voices.

“More of them?” Wight asked.

“We heard that there were more, pushing the captain into the cargo hold.”

“Head out Claws,” Helfist said. “We need someone to lead the way.”

“I remember,” Aevar said. “Follow me.”

He led the pack through corridors. He opened the door to the cargo hold, and the sounds of battle rejoined them. One large berserker was charging towards a small group of traders, a massive thunder hammer in his hands. Aevar could tell it was a champion, or at least an aspiring champion. One bearded trader stood against him, a large las-pistol in his hand and a sword at his side.

“Puny humans,” the champion laughed. “Your head will fit nicely at the foot of the throne!”

The champion raised his hammer as the Claws ran in. But the trader was closer, and against the unwieldy weapon, moved faster. In one smooth motion, he drew the blade. A red arc cut across the champion’s legs, and suddenly he fell, his legs cut from under him. Overcome with pain, the heretic screamed, and the trader jabbed the sword into his open mouth, a perfect killing blow.

The Claws halted their dash as the dead champion hit the deck.

“You still need our help?” Helfist laughed.

“Y-yes, milords,” the bearded trader said. He had to work to free the blade from the skull of the champion.

“Behind you!” A woman yelled. A handful of berserkers had entered the hold, and were charging at the Claws. The air crashed and heated as blobs of super-heated plasma cut through the air. Under the withering fire, the berserkers were cut down. One staggered forward, his armor melting against his body, but against the wrath of a miniature sun, he was no match. He fell, burning to a crisp.

“You _sure_ you don’t need our help?”

“My thanks, milords, but we are only two against many chaos boarding parties,” the shooter said, walking from the small group. It was a woman, mocha-skinned and lovely, and she vented the chambers of the plasma gun. “Again, my thanks for rescuing us. We would not have stood against the heretics much longer if it were not for you.”

“Ah, Captain Agostina! There you are!” Aevar roared. He pulled his helm off so she could recognize him.

“Lord Ironclaws?” She said, stunned. “I would have never guessed that we would meet again.”

“The universe is getting smaller, it seems,” he laughed. The ship violently dipped, throwing a few traders from their feet.

“I _knew_ there was another group of heretics,” she said. “They must be going for my ship’s engines.”

“We’ll take care of them,” Aevar said. “Youngsters, stay here. Come on Helfist, we got this.”

He led them out of the cargo bay, towards the nearest entrance way to the engine room.

“It really is a small universe,” Helfist chuckled. “Haven’t seen them since they carried your worthless hide from Terra.”

“Aye, and it’s getting smaller,” Aevar said as they ran through the ship.

He came to a stop at the access point to the ship’s engines. The sound of a chain-driven weapon echoed in the small confines. He charged in, and nearly ran into an aspiring champion. He sprung back, but the champion was sluggish to respond. He was holding his head; blood freely leaked out of it.

The aspiring champion tried to say something, but it came out a wet gasp. Aevar saw a discarded power axe left on the ground. It seemed to have an ear, or some part of a face stuck to it. The champion grabbed for his own chain axe, and his face tilted, dripping until it parted and hung by a few flaps of flesh.

He staggered, trying to swing the axe, but it hit the wall and fell from his grasp. The champion pulled at the chains that bound the axe to his arm, but he fell to the ground, dying from blood loss; the power axe had nearly cut his face off. Even his superhuman gene-enhanced body could not deal with the damage the axe had caused.

“Let him suffer,” Aevar said. 

“Gladly.”

At the end of the small room was the broken body of a tech-priest. Aevar walked over to him, closing his eyes. He spoke in Binary.

 _“May you rest in your duty to...”_ He faltered. _“Your duty to the Omnissiah.”_

“Did you know him?” Helfist asked. He kicked the aspiring champion, making him jerk. The Chaos Marine squirmed, trying to move, but with half his face nearly hacked off, it amounted to nothing.

“Yes,” Aevar said. “His name was Gordon. He was the tech-priest of the ship.”

“Well, he died hard,” Vermund said. He had pulled his runic axe off his back, and was poking the traitor with it. The heretic gagged, trying to gingerly grab his face, but faltered with each movement. “Taking out a champion is a great feat for a mortal.”

Aevar picked up Gordon’s axe. Like all other Mechanicum axes, the blade was made to resemble a cog, with the Mechanicum’s emblem forged into the blade. It was heavy for a mortal, but just right for a tech priest. He took it with him.

“We need to bring this ship back,” he said. “ _Stanchion_ said that they weren’t supposed to be here. We’d better find out what changed their plans.”

“Aye, get to the bottom of this mystery,” Helfist said. He jabbed the heretic one last time, cutting into the exposed bone. The fallen champion gagged, the copious amounts of blood finally dripping into his throat. He sputtered, trying to clear it, but he could only delay the blood drowning.  They ran back to the cargo hold.

“We got ‘em,” Aevar said. The Claws roared, savoring their victory. “Let’s get back to Dimmimar and have a drink, yea?”

The rowdy Claws began filing back towards their point of entry. Aevar connected to the vox channel to get and update.

Stanchion _, this is Ironclaws, do you read me?_

_Yes, milord, loud and clear._

_What’s the status with that ship that was chasing these traders?_

_Blasted into scrap, milord. The main cannon of the_ Stanchion _is more powerful than we thought._

_Excellent. Get ready to help escort this boat in._

“Captain Agostina, it is a great pleasure to meet you again,” he said.

“Likewise, Lord Ironclaws,” the trader smiled. Her hair was turning only minutely grey. It reminded Aevar of Lynia.

“Saradas, is that you?” He asked.

“Y-yes, milord, it’s me,” the bearded man responded. He was fumbling with his red sword, the sword that Aevar himself made for him.

“You got some fuzz on your face there, Slayer.”

The other traders tightly laughed.

“My razor got a little rusty,” he laughed. “Did you meet with Gordon? Is he well?”

“Gordon…has met the Omnissiah,” Aevar said.

“Oh, I see.” The trader’s face fell. Saradas lowered his head.

“He didn’t go quietly, though. Took an aspiring champion of chaos down with him,” Aevar said. “Damn near cut his face off.”

“Is he dead?” Agostina asked.

“No, but he soon will be.” Aevar handed her Gordon’s axe. Agostina set her plasma gun down, taking the symbol of his office.

“Now, as we understand, your arrival is unscheduled. What brings you to Dimmimar?”

“You need to flee the system.” Agostina said it with barely restrained fear; it caught Aevar off-guard. The traders grew gaunt, with nearly all of them paling. “Or call in every available reinforcement. And you need to do it now; there can be no delay!”

“Hold on, there, what do you mean—“

“No, there’s no time to waste,” Agostina said, cutting him off. “The Black Legion is coming.”

“What do you mean, ‘the Black Legion’ is coming? They should be at Cadia.”

“The Black Legion is _not_ at Cadia. They’ve got the entirety of the traitor legions there, holding the Imperial Navy down, but the Black Legion itself is following us. They are headed here, to Dimmimar, and they’ll be arriving sooner rather than later.”

 

* * *

 

Captain Agostina and Saradas the Slayer stood in Parsef’s chambers, obviously out of place. Traders were not used to crossing paths with Inquisitors, let alone with an Ultramarine, a Sister of Battle Canoness, a Custode and an assassin. Faces were grim as Parsef sat at his desk. Aevar stood with Helfist and Sergeant Julas, who insisted on being there.

“You claim to know that the Black Legion is heading to Dimmimar?” Parsef said.

“How, in the name of the Emperor, did you come across this?” Julas asked. “The Black Legion is the leading force of the Arch-Enemy. They would not simply pass off a Black Crusade to a lesser hand.”

“We were between jump points, milord, a few systems out from Cadia,” Saradas said. “We were investigating signals of another trader that had gone quiet. When we arrived, we found the ship, blasted into a million pieces. And there were ships. Terrible ships…evil, cursed ships—“

“I get the idea,” Parsef said.

“Sorry, milord Inquisitor, but…but they made an impression. They were waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Lynia asked.

“An opening in the warp storms,” Agostina said. “Gordon, our late tech priest, identified many key ships as part of the Grand Fleet of the Despoiler. As soon as that was apparent, we fled. They were lined up at the appropriate jump point to go to Dimmimar; Gordon and Niklas, our Navigator, confirmed this. They were waiting for the right moment for the warp to allow their fleet to travel unopposed.”

“So you outran the entire fleet of the Despoiler?” Julas asked, voice full of disbelief. “Just like that?”

“The _Johnathan_ is much faster than your average trader ship, milord,” Agostina smiled. “We met Lord Ironclaws many years ago, carrying him to Fenris from Holy Terra. To repay his gratitude, he upgraded our ship, gave us a new plasma drive.”

“And I’m damned glad to see it’s working for you,” Aevar said. “The _Johnathan_ has the heart of an escort-class ship; with its much smaller size, it’s power-to-weight ratio lets it outrun damn nearly anything.”

“Interesting,” Parsef said. “Continue.”

“We might only be traders, but we couldn’t stand by and let the entire Black Legion crush a planet,” Agostina said. “So, I ordered us to run to their jump-point. We made the jump, but not before that frigate could follow us. They were ten kilometers from our port side when we jumped.”

“Ten kilometers? That is impossibly close when in terms of astrological distances,” Julas said. “How did they get so close to you?”

“We were two full astronomical unit from the jump point when the traitors opened fire on us. We beat every ship, every torpedo and every anti-ship laser to the jump point.”

“In that case, only having one ship chase you is excellent news,” Lynia laughed.

“The Emperor was smiling down on us,” Agostina smiled. “Our luck held again when we were in the warp. Niklas said that the warp was unnaturally smooth for our trip; we made excellent time.”

“Then the traitors will as well,” Julas said.

“No, he said we were riding the front of a heavy warp storm. He said that the traitors would take a little longer to reach Dimmimar. Almost like the warp was working with us, but against them.”

The hair at the back of Aevar’s neck bristled. He traded looks with Helfist, but they both held their peace.

“It still makes no sense,” Julas said. “Why would the Black Legion abandon the Crusades and come here? The Despoiler would not risk traveling _away_ from Holy Terra.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Parsef said. “The news you bring, of the Black Legion abandoning the Crusades, or at least leaving them to other hands, corresponds with the reports I have been receiving.

“The Crusades have begun, but the Despoiler and his ilk have not been seen. While his capitol ship, the _Vengeful Spirit_ , is in orbit and laying siege to Cadia, there is no confirmation of neither the Despoiler being on planet, nor the Black Legion. We have only reports of his lords ‘Deceiver, Corruptor and Purgator,’ being the ones in command. There are the traitor Titans legion, chosen heralds of the Chaos Gods, even the Blackstone Fortress, but no Black Legion, and no Despoiler.”

“Why?” Seradas asked.

“We can’t think about the reasons of Chaos,” Parsef said. “That will only lead to dark places, and to the abandoning of the Emperor’s Light. What we have to do now is evacuate Dimmimar.”

“Evacuate?” Lynia said. “I beg your pardon, Parsef, but we’re not running.”

“We are but a single planet against the might of the Black Legion—“

“It matters not,” Lynia snapped. “This is a Shrine World, carriers of the Emperor’s Light. We cannot fall, and we shall not run.”

“Then what are we to do?” Seradas asked. “This is the Black Legion; the Despoiler himself is coming to get us!”

“Then we shall meet them, and burn them,” the Sister said. “Ever since the soulless traitor Fabious Bile attacked us decades ago, we’ve been preparing for another siege sent from the dark gods. We should have more than enough munition and supplies to keep us stocked and war-ready. Those supplies will be tested by the Black Legion, but we _will_ hold them off.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Aevar grinned.

“Always, Blasphemer,” she smiled back. “Evacuation is not an option. Even if we were to turn tail and run, there are simply too many civilians on Dimmimar to leave behind. Aevar, I know we just sent a shipment of your armaments off, but would you have any more available for us?”

“Sorry, the Mechanicus sucked us dry,” he said. “Everything worthwhile was taken with the last shipment. We only have our regular power armor and weapons; no Cataphractii armor, no Paragon Blades, just the regular old shit. We’ll have to rely on your prep work and all the shit you got squirrel away.”

“Then we will need back up, and fast,” Kemuel said. “Send word to the astropaths to call for help. As soon as the Imperium finds out that the Despoiler is separated from the Crusade, they will flock to Dimmimar in droves.”

“A chance to attack the Black Legion without having to worry about Titans would certainly draw in any available Marine Chapter,” Julas said.

“Excuse this one,” Geist said, speaking up, “but she has extensive work and knowledge of trench systems, bulwarks and breastworks. She would like to aide in the digging in and setting up defensive ground work.”

“We welcome your expertise,” Lynia said. “Aevar, if you’re available, I’d also like your help with mobilizing our forces.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Besides, I might be able to get a few things made before the Black Legion comes,” he said, “Nothing fancy, certainly not any special armor, but anything to give us an edge, aye?”

“For what it counts, I’ll get the Claws ready,” Helfist said. “How do we want to do this? We can be a raiding party, hitting what we can, but we’re only one pack of Claws.”

“We shall have to coordinate together,” Julas said. “With only ten Marines with myself, we cannot face them head on.”

“Good thing us mad wolves are good at sneak attacks,” Helfist smiled.

“The wolves good at something other than a loud, brazen attack?”

“Only when it’s necessary. Stick around, Julas, you’ll see how we work.”

“We all have our tasks,” Parsef said. “We need to make this planet siege-ready. We might not be able to stand against them, but we can make them pay. That’ll have to be enough.”

 

* * *

 

Laura made her way to her dorm room. Many of the boys and girls had already joined up, either with the Sisters or as Commissars. They wanted to lead glorious lives, full of honor and respect: the Sisters of Battle or the Imperial Guard was the place for their dreams. She just wanted to be normal, not like any damned princess; the PDF had to be the best place for that.

Many boys and girls were gathering, holding each other’s hands as they huddled. A few wept, scared beyond all belief. Laura found it hard to blame them. She wanted to cry herself, but that twisting feeling in her gut told her this was all old stuff, and that she had a job to do.

Dylena was with one group of girls. They sat in a circle, holding hands.

“We pray to you, oh Holy Emperor, as the Arch-Enemy descends upon us,” she muttered, deep in prayer. Like always, she was the picture of grace. Perfectly poised, perfectly postured, and holding absolutely still. Every strand of hair, even her bracelet, seemed to be in perfect order. It was like she was posing to be the subject of some artist’s portrait.

At that moment, Laura realized how much she hated Dylena. It didn’t matter what she did, everyone loved Dylena. She always knew what to say, when to say it, when to joke, when to laugh, and when to be quiet. She attracted people like honey, while Laura herself was nothing but aggravatingly special.

She went to her bunk and pulled out a small metal locker. Opening it, she made sure that she had all of her personal belongings.

She still had the old leather masks that Uncle Silverwolf had made her, along with Revelation, Uncle Helfist’s crocheted stuffed animal. She gave it a quick squeeze to help calm herself; it even helped with her congested sinuses. She put him away, then packed it all up. One last shower, and she would go off to join the PDF.

She was tempted to just duck out. Looking at Dylena and how everyone was waiting on her with bated breath…it made her burn with hatred.

One friend. That’s all she had.

No, she had to be better than that. She gently grabbing Dylena’s shoulder.

“Laura,” Dylena said. Her gold earrings sparkled brilliantly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m joining the PDF.”

“The PDF? But the Sisters wanted you to join them.”

“The Arch-Enemy is coming here,” she said. “There’s no time for training; Dimmimar needs every able-bodied man, woman and child to fight them back. I’m needed, Dylena. And I’m going to answer the call.”

“But the PDF?” She pleaded. Dylena looked like she was about to cry.

“The PDF will let me fight. The Sisters would put me on wound duty, assisting the hosplitars, and you know I’m better in a fight.”

Dylena jumped, wrapping her in a tight embrace.

“Don’t…don’t…”

“I won’t die,” Laura said. “Take care of yourself, okay? Us freaks have to stick together, don’t we?”

“Always,” Dylena nodded. The rest of the girls in the prayer circle stood, giving her a good-bye hug, but it was a token gesture; only Dylena would miss her when she was gone. No one would miss Princess Freak.

She left the dorm room and started walking down the hallway. From the other end of the hall, she saw Uncle Croan walking towards her. If his green armor and black skin didn’t give him away, it was his massive, the-size-of-a-mortal-person broadsword that did. Sisters curtly nodded to him while the mortals knelt. He acknowledged them in turn, curtly but politely.

“Uncle Croan, what are you doing here?” She asked. “I thought you’d be with Uncle Aevar.”

“There is scant free time, yes, but this needed to be done,” he said. “Come with me.”

Something _else_ to make people resent her? No thanks. But people were already looking at her, gasping that she was selected by the vaulted Space Marines.

Groaning, she let Uncle Croan lead her away. They passed reinforced barriers and massive amounts of ammunition crates, finally coming to an open-air landing pad. They walked to a Thunderhawk gunship that was docked. Her mother, a Sister and Uncle Legato were waiting for them. The Sister had to be Aunt Geist in disguise; she was holding her mother’s hand.

“You want me to sit this fight out?” She demanded.

“Peace, Laura, we don’t mean to treat you as if you were still a child,” Uncle Legato said. “We simply want you to pick you battles.”

“So _that’s_ what you’re calling it now?”

“If we did not want you to fight,” Aunt Geist said, “we would not be arming you.”

Uncle Legato drew a dolly from the ship; it held different crates. Uncle Croan opened one; inside was a sword, still warm from the forge. He drew the blade and passed it to her. It was perfectly balanced, but too big to be a bastard sword, while not big enough to be a true claymore.

“As we understand, you are quite the swordswoman,” Uncle Croan said.

“I learned from the best,” she said, giving Aunt Geist a hard look. “Is it a force weapon?”

“Of course. Your Grey Knight tutors have said that you were ready for such a weapon. This was made by Aevar, and is his gift.”

Uncle Croan pulled out a breastplate, part of a freshly-forged set of armor. It looked like a cross between armor a Space Marine scout would wear, and that of a Cadian Stormtrooper; too small to be true scout armor, but bigger than carapace armor.

“This is my gift,” Uncle Croan said. “May this give you the protection you will need to survive such a war.”

Laura held the breastplate up to her, measuring it. It was by far too large.

“It looks a little too big for me,” she said.

“You shall grow into it.”

“I haven’t grown since I was eighteen.”

“One never knows,” he said cryptically, placing the breastplate back in the box.

“There is one last thing,” Uncle Legato said. He drew a gun from a holster, passing it butt-first to her. “We were barely able to make this in time. It’s a Volkite blaster.”

She reached out for the gun, but he pulled it back.

“We’ll give you these gifts,” he said, “if you come with us.”

So that was their plan. Give her the weapons needed to fight, the armor needed to survive, but they would only give them to her if she chose to remain coddled up in the forge city. She wanted to hiss, spit and curse them; she was a woman grown, dammit. She didn’t deserve this. She had half a mind to walk away, join the PDF instead.

But what was waiting for her there? Crappy, standard issue armor and a near-useless lasgun? If there was one thing her family taught her, is that in in war, everyone needed every edge they could get.

“Fine,” she said. “But I better get all this stuff.”

“Don’t ya worry, th’ whole plan is ta take good care of ya,” her mom smiled, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Laura tolerated it. She was already planning on how to run away once she had her armaments.

 

* * *

 

Space rent and tore, and from the gaping wound in reality came the dozens of ships of the Black Legion. Standing at the helm of the capitol ship _Planet Killer_ stood Abaddon the Despoiler.

“Finally,” he growled, barely speaking louder than the powerful servos that helped drive his armor. As if feeling his pleasure, the techno-organic portions of his armor slithered with joy. It was to be expected with the blessings from his patrons, the Gods of Chaos. This time, the gods would reward him, for he was truly doing their bidding. “The damned warp was fighting us too much. Blind them.”

“Consider it done,” Azubhor the Sorcerer said. Abaddon watched him carefully, for Azubhor was one of the handful of Tzeentch psykers who actually joined the Crusade, and the only one to join him on his trip to Dimmimar. He needed more of them, more than what the Changer of Ways, Magnus, or Ahriman were giving him.

Azubhor raised his hands and reached out with his twisted, mutant mind. From below, he heard the screams of the sacrificed astropaths built to a crescendo. They had traveled through the warp without the aid of a Geller cage, tearing at their minds and sanity with every passing second. It was by Abaddon’s will and the favor he bore from the Dark Gods that daemons did not invade their flesh, for he had made a pact: leave the psykers alone, and they will feast upon the Abomination created by the Blasphemer once the planet fell.

Azubhor used the combined power of the astropaths to augment his own psykic might; it was at the cost of the astropaths, but they were loyalist scum. Brains simply exploded with multiple aneurisms, hearts stopped dead mid-beat, or seizures burned out synapse after synapse.

With the ritual complete, Azubhor lowered his hands.

“It is done,” he said. “I have killed as many astropaths as able.”

“Were they _all_ killed?” Abaddon demanded.

“It appears so.”

The Despoiler advanced on the psyker.

“This is neither the time nor the place for games, mutant,” he hissed. “You of all should know the treat that the Blasphemer poses, what this Abomination he created could do, and what he can do for the loyalists and the Corpse Emperor. This must be—“

The ship rocked with the unmistakable recoil of weapons fire.

“What was that?” Abaddon demanded.

“Ship fire, my—“

“I fucking know that!” The Despoiler yelled. “ _How_ were we targeted? They should not have been able to draw a bead on us this quickly.”

“T-the loyalists…they were able to target us…” a mortal slave stammered.

“They could not target us so fast,” Abaddon hissed again. “Our arrival was masked, guarded against any tinkering of loyalist astropaths.”

“It appears that the traders were able to give us the slip,” Azubhor said, examining the view-portal. “They must have beaten us here, warned the loyalists.”

The Despoiler ground his teeth. The entire plan hinged on the element of surprise. Pinning down the loyalist dogs in the Cadian system, carefully maneuvering the Black Legion away, aiming for Dimmimar, it all depended on the loyalist scum now knowing what was happening.

If they knew that the Black Legion was away from Cadia, without support, it would prove too tempting a target. Yes, it would take men and material away from Cadia, possibly enough to critically weaken the Fortress World, but he could not command if _Planet Killer_ was finally destroyed, or even worse, if he were to be killed. And Abaddon could say with pride that the only reason the Black Crusade was possible was because of him. The Gods blessed him, and it was by his will that the galaxy shook.

“So what if the loyalists knew of our arrival; even a blind worm can find a dead body,” he said. “We must roll over them, crush them, and put an end to the Blasphemer. Move the fleet forward, magnify the loyalist swine’s fleet.”

He left out the Abomination that was created. No one needed to know about that; only he and the Dark Gods should know, and the Dark Gods wanted the Abomination to use as a weapon against the Corpse Emperor. But if he gained control of the Abomination, that would give him power, possibly leverage over the Dark Gods.

Abaddon examined the enemy. The loyalist fleet was tiny; it was aspiring to be a support fleet, not a battle group. There were barely more than two dozen ships. There were two battle-barges, with the emblems of the Sisters of Battle, but most were cruisers; the fleet was dwarfed by the size and armaments of the Black Legion.

But floating dead center of the fleet was a massive capital ship. Cathedrals covered the spine of the ship, like all of the ships in the loyalist swine’s armada. But massive cannon barrels lined the bottom, dominating most of the superstructure.

It was if the thing was built to be a giant floating gun, and the ship and cathedrals portions were added as an after-thought. Picts and symbols danced on the flesh-screen, comparing the behemoth to _Planet Killer_. Abaddon growled; the damn loyalist ship seemed to be a match for _Planet Killer_.

“That ship in the center, that is all that matters,” he said, pointing a talon at the screen. “All others are meaningless; they will be swept away by our guns. But that big ship must be torn down. Surround it, and we shall kill it.”

The mortals went to their jobs of sending his words to the fleet.

“There are certainly less of the ships that we had thought,” Azubhor said, taking a step closer to the screen. “I was certain there would be more.”

“Did _you_ think there would be more, or did your lord Tzeentch predict that?”

Azubhor was wearing his helm, with numerous horns organically growing from the cold metal, but Abaddon was sure that the fallen psyker was chuckling.

“Yes.”

“You will speak sense here, wizard,” the Despoiler spat.

“I am merely the messenger, Abaddon,” Azubhor said, holding his hands up in the universally recognized gesture of ‘I mean no harm.’ He even took a step back. “I am telling you what has been told to me by the Great Sea.”

“Then demand that the ‘Great Sea’ be more accommodating of us.”

“One simply does not simply tell the Great Sea what they will of it. It ebbs and flows, carrying with it great power. Any change has an effect—“

“If you are so wise, then tell me why I had to bring you! I could have brought Ahriman, if he was willing, or even Magnus if he could pull himself from his precious planet.”

“The Great Sea, and our Lord, wills it,” the sorcerer said. “No one, not even Magnus the Red, can stand against both. The Great Sea, yes, for a time, and even Tzeentch, again for a time. But against both? There is not a chance.”

“Are not the Great Sea and Tzeentch one and the same?”

“In a sense,” Azubhor said. “I do not mean to speak in riddles, but it is a complicated thing.”

“If only you weren’t needed,” the Despoiler spat. “So tell me, what does your ‘Great Sea’ tell you about the loyalist fleet?”

“I have cast runes and begged for my lord’s patronage. All that I has been shown to me is ‘fleet,’ or ‘flagship,’ and ‘fall.’”

“Then the flagship will fall, if not the full fleet. Then maybe you _are_ of some use, after all.”

“If it pleases you, great Despoiler, the loyalists appear to be firing.”

Abaddon spun back to the view-screen. Brilliant lines of light were rocketing from the loyalist fleet; incoming lance fire.

“More power to the void shields,” he commanded. “Bring the escort ships to bear. They shall charge first. They shall aim above and below the fleet; surround it, and we shall cut it to ribbons. Deploy the troops to the ground; I want Dark Icons raised over the capitol city.”

 

* * *

 

“The Traitors are making their move,” Captain Lionell muttered to herself a she sat in the command chair of _Stanchion of Fall_. “Tell me, what is your plan…?”

On the pict-screen, the foul ships of the Black Legion swung around. The first salvo the traitors took was as close to a sucker punch as they would get; from this point forward, there would be no more free shots. Every missile, every barrage, every burst from the point-defense turrets will cost them blood.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? To get the traitors to pay in blood.

“Enemy ships are moving to surround us,” a helmswoman said, looking over the terminals the servitors were connected to. “Troop carriers are making their way to the planet.”

“I can see,” Lionell said, her hand absentmindedly playing with her braid. “Let’s see how well the Blasphemer can make ships. Move _Stanchion_ forward, we shall take as much of the incoming fire as possible. Shield the smaller ships, then get ready to retaliate.”

“Aye, captain.”

With the gravity generators and inertia dampeners, Lionell never felt the ship move. She could only track the changes on the vid-screen. The fire from the traitor’s fleet hammered home, but everything seemed to hold. The dampeners were strong; she never felt the floor shake.

“Void shields are holding strong,” another helmsman said.

“Excellent. Gunners, chose your targets. Helmsman, turn us around, find us a worthy target. I want to see what this big fucking gun can do.”

 

* * *

 

The hair raised on the back of Aevar’s neck as he scanned the screen.

“They’re here,” he growled.

“Sooner than expected, too,” Croan said. “Our miracle finally ended.”

“And our finest hour begins.”

“If you will excuse me, the transport to the front has been filled,” Croan said. “I am needed to install more defenses out in the field.”

“Have at, brother. I’ll be here, working on turrets and mines and other goodies to give you, as well as digging more quarters to stash the civilians.”

“Have refugees been brought in?”

“Aye, that we have. Every monastery on the planet is filling to the brim; we need to cut into the planet, dig further down, give refuge to all who seek it.”

“Between my defense building and your cavern excavation, I am positive that we can save all of them.”

“Right now, we can only hope.”

 

* * *

 

“Come on, greybeard, where are we going?” The Claws growled.

“We’re hunters,” Helfist said, standing at the motor pool. It was a flurry of activity as civilians were rushed into Ironclaw’s forge city by non-Militant Sisters, and Militant Sisters of Battle were rushing out towards waiting transports to deploy to defensive positions. “We can’t hunt if the enemy isn’t here. We are to wait for the last second, and then we’ll search for drop pods and deployment zones.”

“We can’t just sit around here,” one Claw moaned.

“Needed here,” Wight said. “Stay here, strike anywhere. Go there, only strike there.”

“Listen to your elder,” Helfist said. “If we stay here, we’re mobile. We still got good roads that’ll take us wherever we need to go. If we go anywhere out there, we’re over-extended; easy kills.”

“And you will let us face down the mighty Black Legion by ourselves.”

Helfist didn’t smell Julas approaching; the air was too thick with promethean exhaust, weapon oil and the fear of the civilians. But it didn’t surprise him the bit.

Julas, as tired-looking as he was, lead his team of Marines, each carrying a massive heavy weapon. It looked like they raided the Sister’s armory just as the Claws had.

Two Imperial Fists carried grav cannons, three Red Hunters hefted heavy bolters, while two Novamarines carried missile launchers. A White Scar and the Black Templar carried lascannons, although the Templar had a power sword at his side. Julas himself had a multi-melta, along with his customary power sword.

“What, and let you have all the fun?” Helfist grinned. “Not a chance, smurf.”

“Still combative, I see,” Julas said.

“Aye, that we are.” He stood and faced Julas. “Think you still got it in you? You’ve been a peace a long time.”

“As have you.”

“Touché.” Vermund chuckled. “Alright Claws, Julas and his friends are here to bring some pain. We work together, and we’ll get a story to tell; whether or not we tell it in Valhalla remains to be seen. Julas, what’s your plan?”

“My men will be splitting into two Devastator Squads, as per the Codex Astartes,” Julas said. The Claws boo-ed; he ignored them. “We shall be taking forward positions. We know the traitors will be targeting this city, the capitol, making it easier for us to predict their movements.”

“And you’ve got the range to do something about it,” Helfist said, “leaving the hoofing job to us. We’ll slip behind their lines, make life hard for them; just be sure to actually hit them, okay?”

“I can say the same about you and your neophytes.”

Vermund held out his hand. Julas stared at it.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Normally you’re a fucking detail-whore Ultrasmurf with a stick shoved so far up your ass it’s coming out of your nose, but today, you’re my brother. You’re _my_ fucking detail-whore Ultrasmurf with a stick shoved so far up your ass it’s coming out of your nose.”

A terse peel of laughter got past Julas’ placid demeanor.

“And you are my foul-smelling, unwashed, uncouth, shit-for-brains barbarian,” he said, taking his hand.

“Alright, this is it,” Vermund said. “You youngsters get to a Rhino. The heretics will be making landfall soon, and I want to be ready to move.”

 

* * *

 

“Blasphemer. Blasphemer!”

Aevar looked up from his work on the assembly line. A Sister was running towards him.

“A vox-line just came through,” she said. “It is a battle group, more Sisters of Battle. They’ve just dropped out of the warp! They are here to fight the heretics with us! Canoness Lynia requests your help with them, there’s a servo-skull waiting for you here.”

He followed the Sister to a small side room. A servo-skull floated in mid-air, the holographic projector already waiting for him. Lynia was already waiting for them, a holographic projection of her face floating in air. Next to her picture was a static screen.

“When did this come in?” He asked.

“A few minutes ago,” she replied. “With the heretics screaming in the void, establishing a vox channel is taking longer than expected.”

“Let me see.” His servo-arm spun to life, and went to tinkering with the skull. “Damn, lot of static up there. Gotta be some fucking noise marines making a racket. I’m boosting the gain off the antenna. Might burn it out, but that’s a problem for later.”

“—Mar, are you there?” A voice said. “Repeat, Dimmimar, are you there?”

“This is Canoness-Preceptor Lynia of the Order of the Valorous Heart, speaking for the Shrine World of Dimmimar, we read you,” Lynia said.

The static screen jumped, eventually settling on the picture of an elder Sister of Battle.

“This is Canoness Commander Hilda of the Order of the Ebon Chalice,” the Sister said. In the background, lights flashed and the ship shook, undoubtedly from enemy fire. “We are here to provide assistance. I have my Commandry ready, three hundred Sisters in total.”

“Three hundred? That ain’t enough,” Aevar said.

“When I ask for your opinion, _Blasphemer,_ I will ask for it,” Hilda snapped. “What is the plan? Where is the counter-attack aimed at?”

“Your help is needed elsewhere, Canoness,” Lynia said, “you have to move your Sisters away, travel to any friendly world and summon more help.”

“Negative, Canoness Lynia, we are here to kill heretics.”

“Unless you haven’t noticed, _commander_ , I outrank you,” Lynia snapped. “We have defenses in place, but they will not last for long. Turn your ships around, save your Sisters, summon more help.”

“That is an order I cannot obey, Preceptor. We risked everything to arrive as fast as we can,” Hilda said. “What are our orders? Where is the counter-attack?”

“There _is_ no counter-attack!” Aevar said. “We’re outmanned, outgunned, and you better be damn sure that we’ll be outrun in no time at all. The Black Legion caught us off-guard and undermanned; with the Crusade on, we sent most of our help to Cadia. We can’t be screaming into the void, we need you to carry our message.”

Hilda’s picture shook violently as their ship was hit.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I can’t obey that order, Preceptor,” she said. “It took all of our efforts to travel here as fast as humanly possible. Many of our Navigators gave their lives to expedite the journey. We can’t jump to warp for at least another day.”

“Another day? You can’t last ten seconds without the Black Legion taking shots at you,” Aevar said.

“You said your defenses were not ready,” Hilda said slowly. “How much time do you need?”

“We need one more full day,” Lynia said.

“Then you shall have it.”

“Many thanks, Canoness,” Lynia said. “If it is possible, please drop as many of your Sisters as possible onto the planet; the heretic’s vanguard is mobilizing on the surface around our capital, and we need to repel them.”

“Sister, thank you,” Aevar said. “If you end up in Valhalla, we’ll save a spot for you. And if you end up somewhere else, the Vlka Fenryka will find you and correct that mistake.”

“Many thanks.”

Hilda’s image cut out.

“You need to return to work,” Lynia said. With Hilda’s image gone, she dominated the vox screen. “We need one last push to ready our defenses. Are they completed?”

“Defenses are never completed. But I’ll work on it until my fingers bleed.”

“Excellent,” Lynia said. “If the worst comes to pass…”

“Better make sure it doesn’t,” Aevar said. “We haven’t had a time to sit down and chat for over a great month.”

“Yes, we still have to finish that chess game,” Lynia smiled. “Keep working, and keep digging. We need more space for fleeing civilians.”

“If you die, I’ll kill you.”

 

* * *

 

“We’re receiving word from Canoness Lynia.”

“What’s the Sister saying?” Captain Lionell said.

“The Sisters who are joining the battle will buy us time,” the astropath said. “We are to provide cover for them as they drop troops on the planet.”

“Some relief force,” Lionell said. “Focus fire on the enemy barges, move the _Stanchion_ to take as much fire as possible.”

“We don’t know how much more fire the void shields can take.”

“Either we take the shots for them, or they get blown out of the water before they make planet fall,” Lionell snapped. “Get the main cannon to target the nearest cruiser. They’re close enough together; a blast might disrupt more than one ship.”

 

* * *

 

“What is the meaning of this?” Abaddon yelled. “I want those ships destroyed.”

“I-I’m sorry, my lord, but the loyalist capitol ship is too dangerous to approach,” a mortal slave whimpered. Abaddon stormed up to him, causing the slave to grovel and beg, but the chains that held him in place restricted his movement. “Their guns are too powerful, their shields too strong. Our ships get near it, they are blasted from the sky.”

“Then we outmaneuver them,” he hissed. “Move the ships forward. Tell them whoever backs down first will be torn asunder by _Planet Killer_. If the capital ship falls, the planet falls with it.”

 

* * *

 

“The heretics are making a push towards the capitol ship.”

“Then we are to engage them,” Hilda said. Blood dripped down her face, stinging her eye. She did her best to wipe it away, but the cut on her forehead continued to gush blood.

“Canoness, our main cannon is down.”

“But we have enough missiles,” Hilda said. “If we can get close enough, the heretics won’t be able to dodge them. Chart a course, full power to the engines and frontal shields.”

The ship rolled wildly, throwing Hilda again.

“Starboard engine is out. Structural integrity of the bow is shot, we’re breaking apart.”

Damn. They weren’t close enough.

“Pick your targets, sisters,” Hilda said. “And pray to the Emperor that our fury reaches the heretics.”

 

* * *

 

The ship split in half. Seconds later, the core detonated, creating a brilliant cherry red explosion that hung in the void.

“We shall see you in Hell, sweet sisters,” the commander hissed, his forked tongue playing over his scars. Surely a kill like that is worthy of a reward from the Gods. “The Despoiler needs that big ship taken out. Bring us about.”

Explosions rocked the ship, nearly throwing all of the fallen marines to their ground.

“What the fuck was that?” The commander yelled.

“It, it looks like it was missiles, my lord,” the mortal slave said.

“That ship was dead! How did they hit us?”

“I, uh…it…” The slave stammered as he typed madly at the logic-computer. The attached servitor howled in pain as it was forced to compute the instructions. “The explosion, it masked the launch of the missiles. They must have been launched before it blew up.”

“And why didn’t the void shields block them?”

“They were low on power. We shifted them to guard us against the capitol ship’s main battery.”

The mortal’s head was torn from his shoulders. The commander would not lose his favor with the Dark Gods because of an incompetent mortal.

“Find another slave,” the commander yelled. “Then take us to the capitol ship.”

“The explosion knocked out our engines, my lord. We’re dead in the water,” another weakly said.

His head soon left his shoulders as well.

 

* * *

 

Vapor trails scratched the sky as traitor forces began arriving in force.

“Damn, would you look at that,” Helfist said. “Never thought I’d be on a planet when Chaos lays siege to it.”

Wight grunted in question.

“Thought we’d be the ones to _break_ a siege, not _taking_ it.”

Wight grunted ‘ah-hah,’ and nodded.

“Well, guess we better get to work.”

Wight grunted, tapping Helfist’s pouldron. Approaching them were the five Custodes. Leading them was Kemuel, his helm under his arm.

“The forge city is back there, Kemuel.”

“Apologies, but there is a change in plans,” the bodyguard said. “Long ago, the Custodes were not limited to being simple guards; we were sent out to represent the Emperor, that His gaze was upon the battle. We feel that if the Emperor were able to give us orders, he would want this planet fully defended.”

“Really now?”

“As you wolves are one to say, ‘we need to stretch our legs.’”

“Ha! The more the merrier! It’ll be like the Burning of Prospero all over again!”

“You and I have _very_ different memories of Prospero.”

“Only one way to settle this, Custode,” Helfist grinned. “Get to a Rhino and jump on the vox. We’ll sing songs of the Burning and we’ll see who has the best tale.”

Kemuel led the Custodes to an empty Rhino. Helfist walked back to his, but a cough caught his attention. It sounded like it came from a large ammo crate, which wasn’t supposed to cough. He kicked it over. The crate fell roughly, and a yelp came from inside.

“Alright, who’s in there?” He demanded, drawing his pistol.

The lid of the crate was kicked open, and a woman tumbled from the inside.

“You had to kick that over, did you?” Laura grumbled, getting to her feet. She wore the armor that Croan made her, as well as the freshly forged weapons. She took a second to cough up a wad of phlegm before glaring at him.

“So, what were you doing in there? Looking for heretics in ammo crates?”

“I’m here to fight,” she spat. “You can’t keep me under lock and key in that city. You need all the help you can get, and you can’t turn me away!”

“Well shit, what took you so long?” He laughed.

“…What?”

“You think we _wanted_ to keep you locked up? We knew you’d want to get into the action, but we had to make you work for it.”

“Work for it? Why?”

“Back on Fenris, when a child comes of age, they have a rite of passage to become an adult. Each tribe is different; for mine, I had to take some special fungus and go on a spiritual journey in our sacred mountain cave. Others have to hunt a ferocious beasts, or fight kraken. Since we’re not on a death world, this is the close thing we could come up with.”

“What about my birthday party?”

“You mean the drinking? What Fenrisian _doesn’t_ drink ‘till their kidneys give out?” He roared. “We want to test you, keep you from fighting, and seeing if I’d find a way to join!”

“Seems…Simple.”

“It’s the best we could come up with on this coddling world.” The Rhinos roared in the distance. “Well, you coming or what?”

“You want me to go with you?” She asked.

“Only if you want to get thrown in the absolute shit. We’ll be fighting, nearly non-stop, in the worst places you can imagine.”

“At least I’ll have a damn good story to tell about my coming of age.”

“Ha! That you will! The Claws’ ride is all full, so looks like we’ll be riding with your Uncle Kemuel and me. Get a move on, there’s war to be had.”

Laura jogged off to the Rhino, with Helfist behind her. He slipped on his helm and pulled up a vox with Aevar.

_Laura’s here._

_It took her long enough,_ Aevar said. _I thought she’d never sneak out. Keep an eye out on her._

_She’ll be as safe as she can be in a battlefield._

_That’s not—yes, just make sure she doesn’t do anything_ too _stupid._

_No promises. She might not have been born on Fenris, but she’s as boneheaded as any clanswoman. Oh, and Kemuel decided to come with us. With all of us around, I doubt Laura would be in much trouble._

Helfist killed the vox line and caught up to Laura.

“Guess what, Claws, we got a straggler here,” he said as they ran passed the young ones. “Laura here’s a strong Rune Priest, so don’t treat her like a liability. She’ll help keep the malefactorum out.”


	25. The Siege of Dimmimar

_Onairam stood on a field of death. Corpses were everywhere, mostly human. Dead bodies were falling from the heavens, and it was raining blood. There was no ground; he stood atop the dead that littered the plain. From one end of the horizon to the other, there was only death._

_Faces looked up at him with glazed eyes. He saw Tullus, Potitus, brothers who fell decades ago. In another pile was Appius, and Caius was torn into three pieces, melting from the stomach juices of some foul Tyranid beast._

_“Brothers, please,” he cried. “Your deaths were not in vain. I will make us free.”_

_ “You  _ will _be free.”_ _Onairam never knew who was speaking, or where the voice came from, but he could hear the promise it made. “You thought you were a hero; you were disposable. You were they puppet that fat, old men tug about. You danced to their tune, told when and where and how to die. You were but a simply a plastic piece on a board, to be moved, used and thrown away._

_ “But no more. You are special: you are Chosen,  _ our _Chosen. You have seen the chains that have bound you, and you have freed yourself from their clutches. You have seen our Truth, and you have taken it. Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you shall be free from the rules of man. No more begging and growling for scraps of scraps; it shall all be yours.”_

_Knee-deep in the dead, Onairam prayed to the Dark Gods._

_ “Let us in!” _

_He was only too happy to._

 

* * *

 

Onairam woke from his Dream as the drop pod hit the atmosphere. It had been decades since that Dream began following him in every waking moment. He had spent years trying to ignore it, but he was drawn to it, pulled to it. Chosen; yes, he _was_ Chosen. Why else would the Dream chose him? It had the chance to choose from dozens, hundreds, millions of others, but it had chosen him.

Because of the promise made to him, the promise of greatness, he had waited for the perfect time to paint his armor black. It all came to fruition when his squad leader, his blind brother was chosen to guard the Blasphemer. Onairam, back when he was still called his old name, before he picked his new one, was placed in charge of their squad; and then he acted.

Because of the freedom the Dream offered him, he had forsaken his oaths. Because of the lies that were fed to him, of the obedience demanded of him, he turned his back on all he knew. Because of the blind obedience that was demanded of them, he killed his squad, as they were holding him back from his burning desire to be free.

The pod crashed into the earth, and the doors fell open. He walked out, seeing the buildings of the ‘righteous’ Shrine World. He had to admit, the buildings were truly beautiful. They stood for everything the Imperium stood for. And for that, they had to fall.

The Despoiler’s fleet was, shockingly, still engaging the ragged, token defense fleet above the planet, leaving very little orbital bombardment done. But there was always time for the Despoiler to live up to his name.

Onairam took a second to break from the marching of his new squad, and breathed in the air of the planet. With the burning promethean and crumbling debris that was slowly filling the air, it was starting to blot out the smell of incense and fragrance. It was already smelling better; he never could stomach all the damn incense when his armor was blue. Seeing a statue of some forgotten Imperial hero come crashing down made his soul cheer.

Another lie that was destroyed. Another sin to the False Emperor laid low. The slaves to the Imperium were blind; they had to be shown the error of their ways, told about the lie that was made by the Carrion Lord. Bolter fire and the sounds and smells of burning promethean soon took the place of crushing concrete.

“Now _this_ is much better,” he hissed.

Ahead of him, the sounds of battle, and of the faithful rebound.

“For the Emperor!”

“Yes, Sisters, ‘for the Emperor,’” Onairam laughed. “You poor, misbegotten, blind souls.”

Dozens of feet in front of his squad were a group of Sisters of Battle, fighting for their lives. But they were surrounded, with Onairam’s brothers closing in with every passing second.

“Death to the False Emperor!” One of the many fallen yelled, and the cry quickly redoubled.

His squad surged forward, with Onairam pushing among his kin, scraping their armor as he fought for a chance to lay a Sister low. Bolt gun fire strafed the mob of traitor marines, with one round bouncing off his head. The force sent stars to his eyes. Oh, the Gods _did_ favor him, else he wouldn’t survive that shot.

Onairam laughed as the other squad was fired upon, both by bolters and by the flamers that his Sisters loved so very much. A few fallen fell from the combined might; Onairam laughed at them. If they truly had the blessings and favor of the Gods, they would not be hurt. If they held more faith in the gods, that faith would have saved them. If they were lie him, they would live and fight on.

But they were not him; the Dark Gods said that _he_ was chosen, _he_ was special, and so _he_ was spared. Onairam was but one who jumped through the fire, screaming obscenities and promises of death.

“Keep moving forward,” his squad’s aspiring champion ordered as he braved the oncoming fire. Onairam gritted his teeth. He had taken enough orders to last ten lifetimes; it was the very reason he forsaken his honor and his faith. He could barely stomach any more.

The words of the Dark Gods echoed in his ears:

_ Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you shall be free from the rules of man. No more begging and growling for scraps of scraps; it shall all be yours.” _

“Move! You kill a Sister, you keep her head!” Onairam yelled. He had the favor of the Gods; he was Promised, he was Awaited.

“And whatever’s left!” One fallen yelled lewdly.

The Legion’s lines hit the Sisters, and hit them hard. But the Sister Superior was armed with a power sword, and swung it fiercely. She decapitated one and maimed two others before a chainaxe cleaved her arm from her body. Screaming in either pain or devotion, she pulled out her pistol and stuffed it in the eye of the one who maimed her. His helmet kept his brains inside it, but did not keep the bolts out.

Onairam charged into the brawl, knocking one Sister over. He made a beeline to the armless leader, and caved her skull in with the butt of his boltgun.

“Weaklings,” he hissed at the Legionaries who had fallen. “You have failed your Gods.”

The ground shook; he recognized the impact as a grenade. He looked over his shoulder; the Sister he knocked to the ground had blown herself up, taking two of his fellow squad mates with her.

He then realized that he should not have let the grenades distract him: he was wide open for attack. He instinctively stepped backwards; that very step saved his life. Two whirling chainswords swung passed him, the teeth of one nicking his helm. Onairam hissed, wishing he had his old wargear. Damn the Corpse Emperor, at least the equipment was good.

Undiscouraged, he struck back, hitting one Sister with an elbow to make room, and jumped back, bringing his bolter to bear. The Sister saw the movement, and pushed herself out of the way. Onairam fired anyways, raking her armor and clipping the aspiring champion. In the brutal melee, the champion never knew it was friendly fire.

The champion bellowed, and raised his power sword. Now _that_ was something that Onairam needed; the Gods should have given him that, not the crappy gear he had now. The champion lash out, only to be parried by another Sister. She had skill. Too bad she would have to die.

A Sister jumped at him, and that gave him pause. Enough pause to see the two grenades in her hands.

For the briefest of seconds, he had the urge to jump on the grenades himself. But he realized that was what a loyalist would do, a dog brainwashed by the damned slaves to the Carrion Lord. He was no longer a slave. He was freed from his chains. The Dark Gods promised him the galaxy, and he would take it.

“Finish her, brothers,” Onairam shouted, pushing the nearest body forward. Two more of his squad rushed forward, tackling the Sister.

“Hold her, I want to taste her,” one hissed, a warp-twisted tongue licking the Sister’s face. Onairam braced himself, and the twin thumps of detonating grenades kicked up blood, gore and fragments of armor.

“Taste away brother,” he chuckled. With that Sister taken care of, he turned his attention to the champion. The champion dueled with a Sister, who returned the blows with a chainsword. An attack went high, she went low, and the chainsword severed his leg at the knee. Screaming, he fell.

Before the Sister could strike the final blow, Onairam grabbed her by the neck and brutally twisted it.

“My thanks,” the champion gasped, grasping his new stump. “Help me, and I’ll see you rewarded.”

 _If the Gods favored you, you would never have lost your leg,_ he thought. _Truly,_ you _must have failed them._

“Our champion has fallen,” he said instead. He picked up the discarded power sword. He nearly hesitated; a follower would not kill their leader.

But that was the thinking of a loyalist. That was the thinking of a slave. He was no longer a slave; he was free. Besides, if the champion was truly any good, he would not have lost to a Sister.

The champion’s head flew from his head. Truly, it was a nice sword.

“To me! Our Sisters seek a glorious death; let us oblige them.”

 

* * *

 

 

The _Stanchion of Fall’s_ shield generator was made from the scratchings of a millennia-old decaying piece of paper and half-understood tech.

Aevar Ironclaws made is as well as he could, but even he didn’t know how the entire thing worked. Even though it took the Blasphemer nearly a full year to complete, there were details that had slipped through the cracks. Nearly two dozen diodes weren’t sufficiently powerful to block any backwards-flowing electrical currents at high-load, several meters of wire were of an unsuitable gauge passed certain temperatures, and three relays contained delays that were too slow.

Individually, these were nothing. But under high loads, such as the bombardment by the Black Legion, the problems soon created cascading failures

First, the diodes began to fail. One by one, they were overloaded, and simply burst.

With electricity flowing the wrong way, the wires began to heat up, and began to twist, warp and even melt.

The generator’s simple machine-mind saw that it was beginning to burn itself apart, and took steps to try and prevent that. It activated several relays, but three relays failed to deploy within four milliseconds.

By the time the relays engaged, the damage was done, and the generator continued to fail. _Stanchion’s_ logic-computers relayed the message to the bridge.

“Captain Lionell, message from the engine room,” one helmsman said. “Our void shield’s generator is failing.”

Captain Lionell grimaced, staring at the chart of the planet’s heavens. Traitor ships swarmed over them; they were the only ship left.

What was there to do?

 

* * *

 

“Keep firing,” Abaddon yelled. “What is the status of _Planet Killer’s_ guns?”

“Still charging,” a Dark Mechanicum worker replied. “Why can’t we blow the planet up?”

“Because there is something the Dark Gods want,” the Despoiler replied. “Something powerful, that can finally kill the damn Corpse Emperor.”

“That leaves us with shooting a simple ship.”

“A ship that have taken out two damn battle barges and dozens of lesser ships! Is there news from the planet? How is the deployment of troops on the surface?”

“They are making landfall.”

 

* * *

 

“The reactor is going critical! We need to eject it.”

“Then do it,” Lionell replied. “Switch to back-up generators.”

“Switching to back-up generators. Ejecting the reactor.”

The ship rolled as the reactor detonated. It might have been shot a few hundred kilometers away from the ship, but it still shook the damn thing.

“Void shields failing!”

That’s when the ship started shaking.

“Shields are down. We’re taking multiple hits,” a helmsman said. “With the shield gone, we’re sitting ducks.”

“What’s the status of the structural integrity?” Lionell asked.

“It’s…actually doing very well.”

“You think the Blasphemer made the ship reliant on shields? The entire thing has more metal than several dozen mining asteroids,” Lionell said. “Keep shooting! We only have a little time left.”

 

* * *

 

The servo-skull floating by Aevar sang out a warning, loud enough to be heard over their constant forge work.

“Tha’ th’ _Stanchion_?” Maeva asked, struggling to savage a misshapen breastplate.

“Aye, that it is,” he said. “The void-shield reactor finally melted down.”

“Then it’s over then, yea?”

“No, the party’s just getting started,” he grinned. “I made that thing as tough as I could. The entire thing is honeycombed with pure adamantium. It’ll take more of a pounding than a bar wench after a raid.”

“Speakin’ a poundin’ bar wenches, I shoulda taken Geist off to th’ side ta ‘talk’ ‘fore she went out ta do whatever it is assassins do,” Maeva grunted.

“Guess you’ll have to make it up to her when we get through this.”

 

* * *

 

The _Stanchion_ was taking so much fire, Lionell had to strap herself down to her command chair to stop being thrown about.

“Status,” she gasped.

“Outer hull is getting shredded, but the superstructure is amazingly robust,” a tech-priest said. “Praise the Omnissiah, He is filling us with His blessed logic.”

“All of our available turrets are being destroyed,” a gunner said. A secondary explosion echoed through the ship, causing three servitors to stutter and die. “We’re losing everything, the main cannon is the next to go.”

“Perhaps today _is_ a good day to die for the Emperor,” Lionell said through gritted teeth. “Prepare for ramming speed. That big fucking ship is our target. We’ll take our that damn planet killer if it’s the last thing that we do.”

Lionell paused.

“Shit, it might very well actually _be_ the last thing we do.”

“Engines are hot, and we are moving.”

 _Oh, Holy Emperor, protect me from the foul taint of Chaos as I go to do your will,_ she prayed. _Keep me strong, so that we may bring fear to the Arch-Enemy._

“Enemy ship is moving. They know that we’re trying to ram them.”

“We’re moving too slow,” Lionell said. “We need to give the engines more power.”

“The engines can’t take that much power,” the tech-priest protested.

“Or what, they’ll blow up?” Lionell laughed. “Hate to break this to you, but we’re all going to die. Run the engines down, they won’t survive long without us.”

“Y-yes,” the tech-priest stuttered. “Oh, Holy Machine God, forgive me as I am forced to profane your name.”

“I’m sure the Omnissiah will forgive you if we take out as many traitors as we can. Keep a bead on them! They’re moving away from us.”

More explosions rocked the ship.

“The traitors are targeting our engines,” someone said.

“Dammit all! Don’t tell me that we’re dead in the water.”

“Not yet. The engines are damn strong, that’s for sure.”

“Correcting course,” the tech-priest said. “The heretics are moving too much. Permission to use the ship’s emergency thrusters?”

“What makes you think I’d say ‘no?’”

A deep rumbling passed through the ship, pressing Lionell deep into her chair.

“Correcting,” the tech-priest said. “It is no good, they’re still moving too much; we won’t hit them, we’ll be off by a few dozen kilometers.”

“Damn close,” Lionell grinned. “Prepare all remaining missile pods and turrets! We’re gonna broadside them.”

“There’s not much left, but we’ll make it so.”

On the view-screen, the massive traitor ship grew larger and larger. Lights bloomed across the ship as batteries shot at them. Lionell gripped her armrests.

“Oh, Emperor, please let us hit them, please let us do some damage, please…”

The ship grew impossibly big as they closed the distance. At the last second, the emergency thrusters kicked to life, causing the entire ship to roll, and the over-taxed inertia dampeners finally gave way. If Lionell wasn’t strapped into her chair, she would have been thrown across the room with enough force to break her spine. Explosions rocked the ship as they flew passed the massive traitor ship.

“What in the name of the Throne was that?” She demanded. “Who rolled us?”

“I did.”

Lionell looked for the voice that spoke. A helmsman had gone into the servitor’s pit and had initiated the change himself. She blinked; there was something about the man that was…off. She couldn’t see his eyes, it was as if a kind of mist or fog kept her from getting a good look.

“We weren’t going to hit them, so I rolled the ship and dropped our entire arsenal of bombs on them,” the mysterious man grinned. Teeth almost seemed to sprout from his mouth, and they seemed too sharp, too big. It was like his skin was pink. “The ship lost power to their guns.”

“He’s right!” The tech-priest said, drawing Lionell’s attention. “The bombs have disabled the traitor’s guns!”

Lionell turned back to find the man in the servitor pit, but he was gone. It was like he vanished into thin air.

“Then bring us around,” she said. If they lived through this shit storm, she would find the mysterious man later. “We’re going to try and ram them again, finish what we started.”

“Coming around. The traitor ship is taking cover with other battle barges.”

“The cowards,” Lionell said. “The barges are smaller than us; run over them.”

The ship rumbled, a deep, bone-chilling rumble.

“Engine number four has died,” the tech-priest moaned. “The machine-spirit was overworked.”

“Then get more power from the others! This is our last chance.”

The enemy ships grew larger on the view-screen. Lionell could almost hear the ship breaking under the withering firepower, but they were still moving. And the ships were too close together to move without risking ramming their own comrades.

“Brace for impact!”

The bow of _Stanchion_ hit the first enemy battle barge. Lionell was thrown forward, but the chair’s harness caught her. The inertia snapped her head forward, nearly tearing her head from her shoulders. The Stanchion groaned, and then massive, high-pitched ‘pinging’ noises rattled though the entire structure as the very bones of the ship passed their stress points and snapped. Explosions rocked everything, and she blacked out as her seat’s belts pulled her back, smashing her head into her chair.

To Lionell, she had just closed her eyes, but someone was shaking her awake.

“Captain…captain!”

“Wha-what is it?” She groaned.

“The _Stanchion_ broke into two.” She blinked. It was the tech-priest. He was the only one on the bridge who was moving. “We’re floating, dead in space.”

“How are we still alive?”

“Bulkheads have closed, and are keeping the void from us,” he said. “We still have power, but we can’t move.”

“Where are we?”

“Floating among the traitor’s fleet.”

“How do we still have power?”

“A miracle from the Omnissiah and the Emperor’s Throne,” he said. “Other than that, I am not sure.”

“Do we still have our warp core?”

The tech-priest gazed at her.

“Yes, yes we do.”

“Then detonate it,” she said, grabbing for her aquilla pendant. “We can’t do anything but take as many fuckers down with us. That was the goal, the only goal we had.”

“I understand,” the priest said. He paused as he mentally sent the command to the core. “It will detonate in eighteen seconds.”

“Send a vox,” Lionell said. “Transmit our running tally, and tell whoever gets it that the Blasphemer can make a damn good ship.”

 

* * *

 

The Despoiler screamed as reality was torn open, swallowing the remains of the loyalist capitol ship and nearly three full ships.

“How was that ship still alive?” He demanded. “How was that ship still alive?!”

“Forgive me if this is not my place, my lord,” Azubhor said, bowing to show his submission, “but we all knew that the Blasphemer was creating true mechanical wonders; wonders the Dark Mechanicus would sacrifice _everything_ for. We must assume that he had put all of his great re-discovered workings into the capitol ship.”

“It took out three heavy cruisers in its death spasms,” he spat. “And before that, it took out four battleships! It disabled Planet Killer’s guns! It nearly took out half of the Grand Fleet by itself!”

“Such is the power of the new relics the Blasphemer has created,” Azubhor said. His even-keeled voice was grating on Abaddon’s nerves. “But we have vanquished it. For the glory of the Gods.”

The Despoiler had to agree. Besides, there was a much larger threat to the gods of Chaos on the planet: The Abomination. And any threat to the Gods was a tool that Abaddon would need access to. He needed their power, but he needed to control it, not to be a slave to it. If he had the Abomination, then maybe he could control the gods.

But Azubhor didn’t need to know that.

“Yes, you are right,” he lied. “Bring the fleet around. I want more of our troops on the ground. The Lord Ravenger will secure the beach heads, and we shall press forward.”

 _Planet Killer_ moved forward, making sure to avoid a large piece of debris. One piece caught Abaddon’s eye; it was a piece of the forward bow of the former capitol ship, silently spinning in the void. It rotated, showing the Despoiler the name of the ship.

_Stanchion of Fall._

“Is that the name of the capitol ship?” Azubhor asked.

The psyker’s prediction caused Abaddon’s blood to boil.

_All that has been shown to me is ‘fleet,’ or ‘flagship,’ and ‘fall.’_

“Tell me, wizard,” Abaddon hissed. “Did the runes you cast tell you that the _name_ of the flagship? Did it tell you that it would contain the word ‘fall’ in it, _not_ that it would fall in battle?”

“All that was shown to me was—“

The back of Abbadon’s hand flew free. The blow sent the sorcerer flying.

“Was the Changer of Ways taunting me? Only telling me the name of the ship that nearly shattered my damn fleet?” He bellowed.

“I…I do not know,” Azubhor stammered, trying to get to his feet. One of his ornate horns had cracked, splitting in two. “It was the only thing that the Great Sea showed me.”

“Silence!” The Despoiler raged. “You should count yourself lucky; you are too worthless to kill.”

“Please, Abaddon, I am simply the messenger from the warp.” Abaddon could have sworn that the fallen psyker was laughing in his helm. “I show you what Tzeentch has shown me.”

Why? This was nothing short of a betrayal, of a lost favor. Every Crusade, every action, every raid, was in their name. What did he do wrong? How did he fail the Dark Gods? Where did he lose their favor?

How could he, their Chosen, have failed them?

“Then we must work to regain his favor,” Abaddon spat. “Move us closer. Get the Lord Ravenger to land and marshal our troops. I shall join him in the capitol after we gain superiority of the skies. Now, begin moving the siege ships into place.”

 

* * *

 

Agostina forced herself to swallow, just to try and combat her suddenly dry mouth. From their orbit around the moon, they could clearly see the traitor’s fleet moving in to blockade and bombard Dimmimar.

“We knew the fleet would fall, but to _see_ it…?” Seradas mumbled.

“What is the status of the enemy fleet?” She asked.

“They’re taking orbit above Dimmimar,” their new tech-priest said.

“Then it’s time for our part in the plan,” she said. “We can’t be running dark now. Bring the engines back on, and plot a course for the jump point. Do it quickly.”

“Course set, engines are up and running. The traitors have detected us; ships are breaking orbit to chase us.”

“We need to move faster,” Agostina ordered. “Don’t be shy, stealth time is over; give the engines more power. Charge the warp drive and Geller field. We need to leave, and leave now.”

On the view screen, a handful of escort ships were trying to run them down.

“Try it, bastards,” Agostina hissed. “We’re faster than you ten times over.”

The _Johnathan_ spun, sprinting from its tight orbit around the moon. It arrived just as the first barrage of missiles were halfway to them. Space rent and tore, and the worst part of their job began; going back into the warp.

 

* * *

 

“Stand tall, Sisters,” the Sister Superior yelled. “The heretics shall feel our wrath today.”

There were too many heretics to lay their wrath upon, and they had plenty of wrath to deal out.

“What is the status of the artillery shell?”

“It’s nearly ready,” the Elohiem Advanced said, her cybernetic arms working madly. She had such promise with weaponry and the machine-spirit, she would surely be of better use working with the tech-priests to arm the Order than to die on some random planet. It was a damned shame, but in these dark times, stories of the Elohiem Advanced were as plentiful as ammunition.

“Good,” the Superior said. “Arm it as soon as it is ready. The last one standing blows the charge.”

“Understood,” the Elohiem said. The shell in question was from a massive artillery piece, one the Order had used for many years. But this was not a battle that would use artillery. When word of their actions came down, the Superior had read it with grim-faced determination. She always knew this day would come, but she never suspected it would be this day.

She secretly suspected no one would ever be prepared for a day like this.

“Die well, Sisters,” she yelled, blowing the head off a heretic. “Our reward from the Emperor shall be waiting for us.”

The ranks of her Sisters seemed to swell as they screamed their devotion. The ranks of the traitors seemed to swell as they screamed their heresy and evil. The Sister Superior realized the directive to die well was not an order, but was a plea from the Canoness.

White hot pain exploded all around her as the world suddenly spun wildly. The Sister Superior grabbed for something, anything. What had happened?

Suddenly she was moving, but not by her own power. She thrashed, and hands were pushed against her. Someone was talking, but she realized that she was not listening.

She tried to talk, but nothing came out. If anything, something leaked down her throat. Something hot, sticky but sour and metal-tasting. It took her nearly ten full seconds of coughing and spitting to realize it was blood. Pain and pressure was pushed against her neck. Reaching for it, she found that it was gauze. She grabbed it, holding onto it so that she had something to hold.

“Sister, please hold still. You were shot.”

That would explain a few things.

“Please, you might start choking.” The Superior tried to blink. Who was talking to her? Was it Kat? “A traitor nearly took your head off. You’re missing most of your throat.”

Ah, so that’s why talking was nearly impossible.

“Keep pressure here.” The painful pressure was here. But at the same time, it afforded her relief from the blood that ran down her throat. She could barely breath. “Please, hold out just a little bit longer. A Sister Hospitaller would be here soon.”

Now that was a lie; but it was a lie that she could believe in. She kept one hand on her neck to apply the pressure to the bandage, feeling the pain every second, and reached for her bolter with her free hand. She blinked, trying to clear her eyes as much as possible. She nearly laughed as she realized that heretics were all around her; she barely needed to aim.

The bolter kicked and rattled, nearly tearing itself from her grip. She had to use all of her strength, both of her body, of her armor and of her spirit, to hold onto the bucking gun. Thinking back to her own training, she remembered one of the trainers telling them that only those with ‘true grit’ could fire a bolter with one hand. If there was a time to have that grit, it would be now.

The recoil from the bolter traveled down her arm, shaking her neck. It made the wound hurt all the more, but she reached deep inside her and pulled out all of her rage, all of her fury, all of her hatred of the heretics. It helped her cling onto consciousness, until the gun clicked on empty.

Throwing the gun away, she looked for any weapon. A few feet from her, she saw the detonator that was rigged to the artillery shell.

Crawling was difficult, but she pulled herself through the bloody mud, keeping one hand on her neck. She passed her Sisters, giving their all to the fight. Empty brass shells landed everywhere. A few landed on the Sister Superior’s face, burning her.

Against her armor, the ground was easy to tear and push away. The Sister Superior had to dig her hand deep into the ground to get any purchase. The detonator was ten feet away, but to her, it might as well be on another continent. She reached forward, pulling her arm up to get to a new, fresh batch of soil. Her fingers would sink in, and she would have to do all she could to drive her armored fingers deeper into the soil. Try as she might, it amounted to very little.

She bit at the gauntlet, unlatching it with her teeth; she had better luck digging her nails in, letting the soil bite into her fingers as she tried to wiggle up. The dirt would go under the nails, pushing up and eating at the soft flesh. It was like daggers to her, even against the pain at her throat.

White-hot brands were pushed against her fingertips. Two of her nails snapped, pulling themselves from her fingers. The Sister Superior yelled, gagging on blood. She coughed and spat, twisting and thrashing, then made herself reach forward again, to reach forward again.

Soon the only nail she had left was her pinky. She pushed it deep into the ground, feeling the soil being forced under the nail, and pulled herself forward again. Her shoulder knocked against a box, and something hit the ground. It was the detonator.

Gasping for breath, and trying not to swallow blood, she grabbed the detonator. She had the weapon she needed. Rolling onto her back, she watched the remains of her Sisters fighting. Three were left, holding the bodies of their Sisters in their arms. Slain bodies of traitors surrounded them, acting as sandbags against the onslaught of the Black Legion. With one hand on their slain Sisters and the other on their bolters, they fought. The Sister Superior tried to breath and cough, to get the blood out of her throat.

The ground shook. Her Sisters screamed as a desecrated Land Raider was driven over the bodies of the fallen, and those that still survived. They were crushed by the weight of the vehicle, and it bore down on the Sister Superior.

“The Emperor is great,” she gasped, thumbing the detonator, just as the treads of the Land Raider began crushing her legs.

 

* * *

 

The Sisters were fighting, and damn what his fallen brethren were saying, they were fighting well.

Onairam watched as a Land Raider was destroyed by a buried improvised explosive device. It was lifted clean off the ground; it would be a true miracle for them to survive. But no one crawled from the wreck. That must mean they have failed the gods.

He snorted. Their Sisters _had_ to know that they couldn’t win. Not with the token force that they had.

The ground rumbled, and in the distance, a building fell.

“Death to the False Emperor!” Someone yelled, and the cheer was quickly repeated.

But something seemed wrong.

Onairam squinted, gazing into the distance. The building fell sideways, from the base; it was an intentional demolition, not a crash.

The ground shook again, and another building began falling. Like the first one, it was intentionally destroyed.

The fallen marines cheered and screamed.

“I do not like this,” Onairam muttered. “I am already in the right place; all I need is the right time.” He turned to his squad who were spitting the name of the Corpse Emperor. “This way.”

“’This way?’” One jeered. “Did you just step into the position of champion?”

“Seeing as how the last one’s head was cut from his body, I would say the position was open.”

“What makes you think that you are worthy of the title?” The fallen marine said, pointing at the pilfered power sword. “All I see is that you robbed his corpse.”

“I guess there is not much,” Onairam shrugged. “But I did see a few loyalists over where the building came down; was I wrong to guess that you would like to kill them? Or are you having second thoughts about joining the Despoiler? If you kill us all, maybe the loyalists will think about taking you back.”

“You think I would turn on the Despoiler?” He snapped.

“Why not? You turned on your brothers before us,” Onairam said.

Many of the other marines began laughing.

“No? Still with us?” Onairam said. “Then prove it. Let us go kill our sweet sisters.”

He led them through the rubble, and much to his pleasure, the squad followed him. Yes, he was blessed by the gods, just as they said. He gave them the heads of his squad; surely, they would give him the galaxy. There was only one more head that needed to be given, one head that was absent when he painted his armor black.

They charged through the rapidly degenerating streets, and the ground shook yet again; another tower was falling. As they ran closer to the falling buildings, the air began growing thick with dust and rubble. The filters in his helm cut it all down.

The air cracked, and light bloomed in the haze as light bounced off the dust. Onairam recognized it as lasgun fire.

“Damn flashlights,” he grunted. “See where that came from? We are going to kill them.”

His squad laughed, and began charging through the streets, the already rattled ground cracking under their armored footfalls.

Onairam ran full-tilt into a doorway, barely slowed down by the thick wooden door; it simply splintered against his armor. Inside was a group of mere mortals; a family, most likely. Each held a lasgun, and were screaming litanies of strength and warding.

“Your False Emperor is not here for you,” Onairam laughed. A boy screamed and the women cried as he raised his sword. It was so much better than the crappy chainsword he was given, it was more befitting one that was blessed like him.

“There are more upstairs!” Someone yelled.

“More blood,” one yelled.

“More souls,” Onairam hissed. Using the severed head as a paint brush, he blotted out an Imperial Aquilla engraved on the wall. He had seen enough of it to last several lifetimes.

They charged up the stairs, finding more families. All were armed with lasguns, and all folded with equal ease.

All throughout the butchery, the whispers of the Dream floated through his head. The Dream promised him glory, endless glory for him and him alone. It made him laugh, thinking of all the sacrifices he gave when his armor was blue, all his brothers who were sent off to die, for all the pointless battles they were forced into.

All for damned silence. But now, his work meant something; now he was special. Painting his armor black might have been the first true choice Onairam ever made in his life.

The ground shook, buckling wildly, throwing Onairam from his feet. Other of his fallen brethren were tossed about, and the rumble turned to a mad, ear-splitting din. Dust filled the building, so much so that even by switching to night vision his helm could not pierce through it.

It took nearly a minute for the ground to stop shaking. It took nearly five before he could see properly again. Eventually, Onairam was able to find his way to a window. Peering out of it, he saw yet another massive skyscraper was knocked to the ground, forming a barricade over three stores tall. This particular one landed almost a block away. No wonder the air was thick with dust and debris.

He looked through his helm; the street the building was blocking was massive. With the daemon engines undoubtably entering the fray, they would need all the space they could get.

“We need to hold this position.”

His brothers screamed their dismay.

“There are loyalists here to kill,” they yelled. “They must die!”

“And they shall,” Onairam snapped. “We are the tip of the spear; we need to hold this position so the daemon engines can advance.”

“And why should we listen to you?”

Onairam was not surprised to see that it was another ‘brother’ that was challenging his rule.

“Because the loyalists know that the daemon engines will be coming,” he said. “They _must_ know it. This is a siege, and we cannot win a siege without siege weapons. This place has value.”

“Killing loyalists has value,” the fallen marine hissed. “Damn you and damn your commands. Anyone who wants to kill the slaves of the Corpse Emperor, come with me.”

The marine made the mistake of turning his back to Onairam. He grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, kicking his leg out from under him; the marine fell. Onairam smashed his gauntleted fist against his helm, cracking one of the eye-lenses. He hauled the thrashing body towards the window, and held his head in place, overlooking the street.

“See that?” Onairam hissed, pointing out the window. “That is a big fucking street. Big fucking streets mean big fucking war machines. The Despoiler knows this, the Lord Ravenger knows this, the loyalists know this, _you_ should know this!”

The rebellious marine thrashed, trying to free himself.

“We stay here, the loyalists will come to us. They cannot let us have this street; they will throw themselves at us! All that we can kill and more! And when the daemon engines arrive, and they will, the Lord Ravenger will see us holding the line, he will see our devotion and we will be _rewarded._ ”

He let the traitor go, and the marine quickly got to his feet.

“What will it be?” Onairam asked. “Stay here, kill loyalists and gain infamy and rewards, or run about and try to strike at the loyalist lines?”

“You are not a champion,” the marine yelled. “You are a bootlicker. But I guess that comes naturally, does it not?”

Onairam rushed forward, slamming the marine into the wall.

“Do not ever talk about that again,” he snarled.

“You do not need to worry,” the marine laughed.

Onairam burned with embarrassment; he had let himself be goaded.

“I want no part of whatever bootlicking plan you have. I shall win honor and rewards my own way. Anyone else is free to join me as their champion.”

A handful of marines left, leaving fewer with Onairam.

“We stay here,” he said. “This is a good position. The loyalists will be here to take it. Get ready to move; mobility will be our friend.”

“As you order,” the stragglers mumbled.

For the first time since he painted his blue armor black and he took his new name, Onairam wondered if he had picked the wrong side. He was blessed; he felt it in his bones. So why did the Gods let those marines leave him? Why did abandon him when he needed them? What did he do wrong…?

 

* * *

 

Laura did her best to calm herself. The Rhino shook as it traveled over ruined streets and turned-up ground. A vox channel between their Rhino and the one that carried the Claws were open, and the young marines were singing battle-hymns in Juvik, pounding their chests and the hull of the Rhino. Even without the vox channel, Laura was sure that they could be heard from the other armored carrier.

 

_Been training for years_

_Now we’re ready to fight_

_The beat of the battle goes on!_

_We will not fall,_

_We will not falter,_

_Russ’ will keeps us strong!_

“Nervous?”

Laura looked up. Uncle Helfist was grinning and banging his fist against the hull in time with the beat, the one that was painted with dried blood.

“Yea. It _is_ my first real battle, after all.”

“Ah, good old raw nerves,” he sighed. “First one’s the toughest.”

“So I’ve been told.”

 

_Through the gates of Hel,_

_As we fight towards Valhalla,_

_Through the Traitor’s lines!_

_We’ll cut their threads,_

_We’ll split their skulls,_

_The murder-make is here!_

Laura swallowed hard, trying to calm herself. She had to be like Uncle Kemuel and his Custodes. They stood nearly perfectly still. If it wasn’t for the occasional ditch that rocked the Rhino, they would be statues. But at the same time, her usual phantom feeling, the deep-seated feeling in her gut, was telling her what to do; it was an old trick, something familiar.

“Got any advice?” She asked.

“Plenty,” Uncle Helfist said. “Stay as low as you can. Makes you harder to hit.”

Laura had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

“’Stay low?’” Even Uncle Kemuel chuckled at that. And the Claws kept singing.

 

_Tonight, we shall strike,_

_Bring thunder from the sky!_

_Together we’ll fight,_

_And some of us shall die!_

_They’ll remember our fury,_

_They’ll remember out stand,_

_And many will die by our hands!_

“Brothers, we have word from Sergeant Julas,” the driver said, yelling from her seat at the front of the Rhino.

“Put him on,” Helfist yelled. “Quiet down the youngsters Wight. I can barely hear myself think, dammit.”

_Brother Helfist, are you there?_

“Oh, so all it takes is an invasion by the Arch-Enemy and suddenly I’m ‘brother’ now, eh?” Vermund laughed.

 _Once this is over, you shall be a damned Wolf again,_ Julas said. _We have received word from the Blasphemer; they are destroying as many of the tallest buildings as they can to block the roads._

“Smart thinking; that’ll limit the armor and siege weapons they can bring in. It’ll be a bitch to re-build them, but that’s for later.”

_That is the exact sentiment of Canoness Lynia. Our Sisters are working fast, and working well; while the Sisters of the Ebon Chalice are stalling the Arch-Enemy’s advances, Croan and the Valorous Heart work to demolish any structure over ten stories. Hold._

The line went quiet, letting Laura feel the rumble of the engine and treads as they crawled over rubble. It also gave her time to feel her heart pound in her chest, despite the just-another-day feeling in her gut.

_Sisters of the Ebon Chalice have reported sighting daemon engines making their way towards the Sister’s main monastery. But the Valorous Heart has taken down buildings that block the street to the main chapel._

“Prime real estate,” Helfist muttered. “The traitors must know this. Are they advancing upon it?”

_That they are. That will be the place that we are needed._

“What about the Sisters of the Chalice?”

_Any survivors are moving to block any advances they can._

“They’ll be at the downed building. Got it.”

_Where can we expect you?_

“Far downrange,” Helfist said. “We’ll hit them as far back as we can, see if we can cut any supply lines or reinforcements. And if you can, get Croan and old man Ironclaws to install as many surprises behind the building. If they break through, it’ll be a nice shooting range.”

_Croan Dragonsword is already working on it._

“Excellent” Helfist smiled. “Good hunting, Julas.”

_May the Emperor protect you._

“Alright Claws, listen up,” Helfist said, speaking to the open vox channel. “We’re going in deep on this one. We’re hunting, so keep your damn mouths shut, and for the love of the Allfather, listen to us, okay? Can’t do any fighting if we’re getting blown to shit.

“We’ll need help with this; ain’t no time for pride. Kemuel, you and your Custodes ready to see some action for once in a few millennia?”

“It does please us,” he said, holding his guardian spear steady. “It will be like very, very old times.”

“I bet you’d like that,” Helfist grinned. “Damn. Feels good going back to war. Laura, stay close, keep your wits about you, and you’ll do fine.”

“We’re approaching the coordinates you marked,” the driver said. “We’ll stand by on station, but keep the traitors off us, we only have a heavy bolter as armaments.”

“Don’t worry about staying on station,” Helfist said. “We’ll hoof it from here. Better to stay low and quiet than with a big noisy transport. You get back to the battle, see if you can get some fucking Razorbacks.”

The doors to the Rhino dropped.

“Kill a heretic for us,” the Sister driving said before pulling off.

“How about ten heretics? We got our pick of them.”

Laura followed Uncle Helfist out into the street. Windows were blasted out, walls were shot up, and a few pieces of rubble were strewn about. But, all things considered, it didn’t look that out of shape. Less so than what she was expecting.

Across the street, the Claws were leaving their Rhinos as well. Wight cuffed one to keep his voice down.

“Right, here’s where we stand,” Helfist said. “Claws, slowly move up, stick to cover as you go. We’re the hunters, but the prey is nothing to scoff at.

“Laura, you’re with me and Kemuel. We’ll be across the street spotting for the Claws. The Knights say you’ve got some talent asking the spirit of Fenris for things that’ll happen, right?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. We could use that right about now,” he said. “Keep your eyes open and we’ll get through this. Move.”

The Claws bolted to the building. Kemuel made a series of rapid-fire battle-signs, and two of the Custodes broke off, running full tilt to their building.

“Stay close,” he said. “We need your talents.”

“Glad to know I’m needed,” she muttered, doing her best to keep up with the super-human guards. The dust in the air irritated her throat, and she coughed.

“Better get a helmet on,” Uncle Helfist said sternly. “Can’t be making any noises.”

“R-right.”

Laura readied her helmet, but first dug through her pockets to find her medication. Her heart stopped when she realized that she forgot it back in the monastery.

“Laura, helmet on,” Helfist snapped.

She didn’t have time to panic. She slid the helmet on, and it immediately filtered out the dust and debris. She made it to the building with Kemuel behind her, and followed Helfist to the second floor. Outside, she heard the sound of heavy weapons. A light thump, then seconds later, rolling explosions; the tell-tale sound of a missile launcher.

“Looks like Julas found the first wave of heretics,” Helfist said. “Laura, I need you up here to point out targets. Get on vox.”

Laura made sure that her helmet was set to the right vox channel, then checked the rest of her gear. The Volkite blaster sat snuggly in its fresh leather holster, and her larger-than-normal force sword scrapped the ground in its sheath. Her marching rucksack was tightly packed, ready to be used, and her water canteen was filled to the brim. Everything was ready but her.

She took a deep breath and felt for the fabric of reality. Reaching out to the warp felt like an old trick she long since mastered, but she secretly wished she brought her stuffed pup Revelation with her. The ground shook as a missile missed a mark. Hearing the rumble drew her attention, and she saw a black-painted hull for a split second.

“There,” she said, pointing to the far-off block. “Think that was a tank of some sort. _Uncle Helfist, did you see that?_ ”

 _Aye, just a flash through an ally,_ he said. _Looked like a Rhino of some kind. Maybe a Land Raider._

_Should we let Sergeant Julas know?_

_Na, he should be seeing it soon. Doesn’t mean we can let it get away clean, though. Wait, look at that._

Down the street, a Land Raider turned a corner. Heretical icons, chains and spikes decorated the hull, along with the eight-pointed seal of Chaos. The massive war machine turned, spinning in place as it presented the rear-most armor to them.

 _Yup, that’s our first prey; they’re too far away from their support,_ Uncle Helfist said. _Wight, you and your squad get some melta bombs from old man Aevar’s armory?_

Wight grunted.

_Good. You’ll be using them._

Laura ran as fast as she could, barely keeping pace with the Custodes. Uncle Helfist lead the way, a wide grin on his face.

“Would it be wise to wear your helm?” Uncle Kemuel asked.

“And let the heretics see that I fear them?” He demanded. “Not a chance!”

He came to a stop, waving them all down. He peered around the corner, then ducked back into cover.

“Yup, we’re here,” he laughed. The air cracked as the Land Raider’s lascannons opened fire. “And that thing needs to die. Wight, get the youngsters ready. Only use two melta bombs, we gotta save the rest. Get ‘em up and ready.”

Across the street came the howl of the Vlka. Laura peered around her uncle to watch. The Vlka ran fast, surging like a tide as they reached the Land Raider. The top-mounted turret began turning to track them, but it was too slow. Two of the Claws slapped melta bombs to the exhaust stacks, and jumped away a split second before they ignited.

Two sun-bright explosions rocked the Land Raider, and the hull was torn asunder. Secondary explosions rocked it as the engine detonated, and it promptly died. The Claws cheered, but Wight silenced them.

“Heretics on board,” he said.

Something heavy hit the ground, and from the front of the Land Raider came a full team of black armored heretics. All carried bolters, and one carried a power sword. Just seeing the fallen marines awoke a fury in the Vlka, as well as an old, hateful twist in Laura’s gut.

_Those were the damned traitors who ruined everything!_

The Vlka charged, and Laura found herself almost rushing with them. Uncle Helfist stopped her.

“Give the youngsters a chance to hit them,” he said. “Get this out of their system.”

Hit them they did. The Claws were screaming fury as they attacked the heretics. None of the Claws had chainswords; with the Black Legion coming, they had raided what was left of Uncle Aevar’s armory; many had power swords, a few had power fists.

The heretics fought back, scouring armor and landing blows. A few Claws fell, hurt, but still alive.

“Now’s good,” Uncle Helfist said. “Time to get the rust out of those joints, Kemuel. Let’s go! _For Russ and the Allfather!_ ”

Laura screamed as she charged, pushing at reality and filling her sword with eldritch power. The heretics spun, shocked to see the massive Custodes bearing down on them.

“In the Emperor’s name, die,” Uncle Kemuel said. His spear shot out, bisecting two at the hip. Uncle Helfist lashed out, punching through the helm of another, crushing his skull.

Laura’s heart was pounding in her chest, but a strange sense of serenity was in her stomach. Laura attacked just as Aunt Geist had taught her, ever since she could hold a sword. The heretics were strong, sure of their armor, but they were slow.

It sliced through their armored ceramite almost as if it wasn’t there. Blood jetted out as she mentally checked her form, staying on her toes and doing her best to not overextend herself.

Two of the surviving heretics tried to hit her, but their form was sloppy, over reliant on power and brute force. It was just as Aunt Geist had said: the great strength of the Space Marines was their crutch. To many, might made right, and technique was left out.

She deftly countered, her arms moving by themselves, her muscles steeped with knowledge the assassin gave her. The blows slid off the sword, and she brought the tip of her sword swung up, gutting one.

The last surviving heretic was hit by a Claw with a power fist, as well as by a Custode’s spear. It happened so fast, Laura didn’t know who got the killing blow in.

“Hold,” Wight snapped. “Good.”

“A good start,” Kemuel said.

“Who’s hurt?” Helfist demanded. A few of the wounded Claws raised their hands, and their brothers pulled them to their feet. “Nice gashes. Might get some scars from these. Let’s go. Wight, take the youngsters to the left, Kemuel and I would take the right. Laura, you’re with us. Keep your eyes peeled.”

She had to bolt to keep up with her uncles.

“Like your first fight?” Helfist asked, grinning.

“It was…”

“Over too quick, eh? Just like your first time with _other_ things, I bet,” he laughed, making her blush. She might hate Dylena every so often, but Laura still missed her. She was more than a friend. Was she safe in the catacombs of the chapel?

“Just a bit like it.”

“Well, don’t worry, the first one is the hardest. It gets easier from here. Just stay alert, and you’ll be fine. Kemuel, looks like you Custodes can fight after all.”

“You sound surprised; we fight better than you.”

“We’ll see about that. Laura, see what you can scry. Keep us out of view of the heretics. We keep hitting their backsides. Any heretic we kill, ammo dump we blow up, or armor we destroy means our Sisters at the front get some room to breathe.”


	26. The Siege of Dimmimar

Julas hadn’t seen such a target-rich environment since he faced a splinter fleet of the Tyranid swarm. Fallen brothers were streaming forth, with armor support and foul daemon engines in their midst. They were getting dangerously close to overrunning the fallen building that blocked the street off. That had to change.

 _Sisters, what is the status of the Whirlwinds?_ He asked on the Sister’s vox channel. Even in his armored hands, the multi-melta was hot from frequent use. He was taking shots at any traitor he could; their armor was too far out of range, but he could harass any troop he wanted.

 _They are being deployed,_ a harried Sister replied. _The Ebon Chalice are mounting a counter-attack by your position. Hold the traitors at the tower._

Missiles hammered home, stalling a traitor’s Rhino. Across the massive street, lascannons punched holes in the flesh/hulls of the hideous daemon engines. The daemons shrieked in pain, but continued to push on, the unholy fusion of metal and skin twisting, pulling itself closed. The damn things took much to kill.

There was a rumble in the air, and a loud, piercing whistle grew in intensity until it was a howling roar. From the skies, armored Sisters wearing jump packs descended with the wrath of furious angels. They landed in front of a column of traitors and daemon engines, crushing one heretic underfoot, and stood between the Despoiler’s forces and the fallen building-turned-barricade.

“For the Emperor!” They cried. Bolt pistols chattered, chainswords howled, and the air snapped as power swords were activated. “Stand with me, Sisters! Unleash your fury on them!”

What were they thinking? They were but two squads of assault units against an entire armored column. Julas’ helm identified their vox channel and he joined their talk.

_Sisters, you must withdraw._

_Canoness Lynia has requested one full day to finish her defenses; we’re giving you that day_. The Sister Superior parried a strike and countered, her power sword cleaving through his armor. _More of our Sisters will be joining us._

 _I understand,_ Julas said. _We shall give you as much cover as we can._

_We appreciate it._

“Focus fire on the daemon engines, our Sisters are bringing our righteous fury to the infantry.”

Missiles, lascannons and grav cannons hit the daemon engines. They were at the cusp of the range of his multi-melta, but Julas was able to land a glancing blow none the less. Under the withering fire, the damned thing finally fell over, succumbing to its wounds.

The Sisters cheered, pushing themselves to greater feats of heroism. But even then, it was not enough.

 _Sergeant, if you could space some firepower, we could use some,_ the Sister Superior said.

_The heretics are too close to you, we may hit—_

_Does it_ look _like we give a damn?!_

_Understood. Brothers, our Sisters want heavy fire; danger close. Missile launchers, target any approaching group of traitors. Lascannons, grav cannons, keep targeting daemon engines._

Traitors disappeared as the missiles unleashed their fury. One Sister was killed in the blasts, but the rest continued to fight.

From the rear of the battle came roaring engines. Rhinos engraved with the mark of the Ebon Chalice were driving flat out, either weaving through the twisted side streets, or blazing through the columns of heretics at the edge of the main avenue, running over as many as they could.

Many heretics and surviving daemon engines opened fire at them; a few Rhinos were destroyed, but many made the mad dash to the fallen building. The ramps dropped, and Sisters poured out, forming a human blockade against the Black Legion.

“Stand tall,” the Sisters cried. “We must hold them here.”

“Keep firing, we must support them,” Julas said.

 _No, brother, we shall make our stand here,_ the Sister Superior said. _Keep those damn daemon engines off us, and we shall stall their advances. Once those monstrosities are dead, fall back further; your heavy weapons will be needed._

_Walk with the Emperor, Sister._

_Until the End Times, Brother._

“You heard the Sister, the daemon engines need to be killed. Keep firing.”

 

* * *

 

Damn the Sisters. Their tenacity was legendary.

They were few, but each fought with the zeal of nearly a dozen. Onairam had never seen them this riled up when his armor was painted blue. They had fought non-stop for an entire day, and seemed as if they could fight many more.

Not that their zeal was unmatched. Just seeing the puppets of the Emperor was enough to boil the blood of the entire Black Legion, and they responded in kind. Yes, the Sisters might fight like caged animals, but sooner or later, they would run out of ground to yield. But why couldn’t that time come sooner rather than later?

“Keep firing,” Onairam yelled. “You want the Whores of the Emperor to show you a thing or two? The loyalists gave us this building, we should use it.”

It was just as he suspected; the entire street had become a massive firefight. With the broad, paved stone streets offering the perfect avenue for the massive daemon engines, it seemed the entire fighting on the planet was taking place here. Squads were joining the fight, and they needed to be controlled; he needed to show that _he_ was the one blessed, that they need to listen to him.

“You, there, what do you think you are doing?” He barked. “The loyalists will be there, no, over there, in minutes. Get in this position, and you will have a clear line of sight to them. Wait for them to come to you. Protect those engines! They need to break down that building.”

Maulerfiends rushed forward, their many Claws and lashes seeking the flesh of the loyalists. From somewhere above, the unmistakable, brilliant light of lascannons cut through them, piercing their metal flesh and tearing them asunder. They died screaming, but were to be replaced. But just how many engines did the Despoiler have?

Damn, those Devestators were well-placed, and well-entrenched. They needed to be destroyed. He traced the lascannon shots back to the shooters. There needed to be a way to get to them.

He blinked. Was that a deep, royal blue armor that he saw? Was that the last blind brother from his old squad?!

“Are you the aspiring champion leading this squad?”

Onairam spun, hissing his anger.

He stopped almost immediately. Standing behind him was a Chaos Champion of the finest, most ancient armor. It was painted the brilliant purple of the Emperor’s Children, with the adornments that he would expect of one of the Chosen of Abaddon. It looked like he had stepped straight from the Heresy.

Onairam himself should be as blessed at that. The Gods promised him the galaxy.

“Ah, you _are_ the leader of this group,” Devram Korda, Lord Ravenger of the Black Legion, said. “Most interesting. What is your name?”

“Onairam.”

“Ah, yes, you _are_ the one that I have been hearing about,” the Lord Ravenger grinned, revealing teeth filed to points. “One of the first to stake a claim in this battlefield, one to recognize how important this is. Yes, you have some promise.”

“Thank you.”

“What, no bowing?” The Lord Ravenger asked, laughing. “Most bow or kneel now.”

Hatred and bile rose in Onairam’s throat. _Kneel?_ He had knelt before, back when his armor was blue. He had killed, and was patted on the head. He had seen brothers die by the score, and was given silence. He had buried sacrificed lives, and was _still_ asked to kneel. He had dedicated his life to a cause, and his very name was never even remembered.

Let the Imperium keep his dead, forgotten name. He gave himself a new one, and his sacrifices were _never_ in vain. 

“I have done more than enough bowing in the service of the Corpse Emperor,” Onairam spat. “I shall never kneel again.”

“I always hated that damn kneeling,” Devram grumbled. “Even before Horus raised arms against the False Emperor, it was always kneeling, bowing and cowing. But I see hope in you. I like the initiative you have, and the ability to find your head from your ass. I have my eye on you, Onairam. Impress me.”

“What?” Another Legionnaire demanded. “He is a turn-coat, one who was lashed to the False Emperor! He cannot be worthy of leading, he never worshipped the correct gods!”

Devram was a blur of motion as he drew his blade and decapitated the questioning marine.

“Do not _ever_ begin with the ‘worship to the gods’ bullshit,” he hissed. “We spend enough damn time fighting ourselves over that very same shit, and we do _not_ need to begin the fighting on it again, especially here!”

He turned his gaze to the squads of marines who were fighting.

“You do what you are told,” he demanded, pointing at the offending marines. “We need to kill these damned Sisters, and we need to do it now. Onairam, come here.”

Onairam took care to kick the head of the marine as he approached the Lord Ravenger.

“You know how valuable this route is,” Devram said, “and we need it now. There are plenty of massive parade streets going into the city, but this is the one we are able to make any headway with, and our damned ‘Sisters’ have gone and blocked it off with a fallen building.

“I need to bring the Despoiler good news, not news that the Whores are being stubborn. I plan to bring more troops to the front, but I need to make sure that no one ever brings up one of the many things that divides us. Keep your squad fighting, I shall be interested. Keep every squad of the marines in these ruins in order, I shall be impressed. Do you want to impress me?”

“I do not wish to impress you, I wish to impress the Gods of Chaos.”

“I believe there is some brown on your nose,” Devram laughed.

“I want what had been promised me.”

 _Freedom from the rule of man,_ he though. _I want the galaxy, I want it all._

“Don’t we all. Go, and impress me. I expect great things from you.”

Onairam watched as he left, screaming commands at other groups of fallen brethren. Onairam watched as other fellow traitors glared at the Lord Ravenger, safely out of his sight. It was the look of disgust, of hatred, but above all, it was a look of jealousy.

They wanted the power he wielded, the weapons he fought with, they wanted to be him, to take his position. Onairam knew this, because he felt the same greed and envy boiling over in him when he looked at the Lord Ravenger.

But he was Chosen; he was faithful. Surely the Gods would protect him, wouldn’t they…?

 

* * *

 

Agostina gripped the armrests of her chair in a death grip. No one had followed them into the warp; the _Jonathan_ was simply too fast. Nothing could go wrong, and she knew well enough that _everything_ could go wrong in a moment’s notice.

 _Preparing to drop out of the warp,_ Niklas said on the vox.

“How are we doing?” She asked.

 _Too well,_ Niklas replied. _The warp is by far too smooth. I haven’t seen it this calm, or compliant, in years. Decades, maybe._

“Just like it was when we were carrying Lord Ironclaws back to Fenris,” Saradas said.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Agostina said. “We might be only jumping one system away, but the Traitors could be here as well. Stay on guard; all power to the Geller Field. Niklas, bring us back to realspace, but be ready to jump back in case we are outmaneuvered.”

The warp was torn; the view shields were pulled back, and suddenly they were back to floating in the pitch-black void.

“Too damn easy,” Agostina muttered. “Thank the Emperor. Where is the remains of the fleet?”

“Scanning. There, in orbit of the fourth planet.”

The _Johnathan’s_ pic-screen flashed to life, showing the position of the ‘fleet.’ The Sisters of Battle had split their Dimmimar fleet in two, and sent this half away. Several cruisers floated in space, along with barely a dozen escort ships. It was a fleet in name only; but it would have to do against the forces of the Despoiler.

“We’re being hailed,” Saradas said from his console.

The pic-screen flashed, showing a young Sister of Battle.

“Identify yourself,” she snapped.

“This is Captain Agostina of the rogue trader _Johnathan_.”

“’Star’,” the Sister challenged.

“Throne,’” Agostina said, answering the key word.

“It is good to see you, captain,” the Sister said, visibly relaxing. “My apologies for the course welcome; this has been a trying week.”

“That it has,” she said. “Sadly, we bring the news that you were expecting.”

“The forces of Dimmimar have fallen, and the Despoiler’s fleet controls the skies,” the Sister said. “It’s time for the second phase of the battle. Thank you, captain. We must now do our duty to the Imperium, and do our best to avenge our fallen Sisters. You remember your next phase?”

“Run like Hel to the nearest Imperium controlled word, and spread the news of the Despoiler’s real position. Don’t worry, we have Canoness Lynia’s message; we’ll play it endlessly and scream and yell for anyone to help, and we won’t stop until a retaliatory fleet has arrived.”

“Thank you. And if you have the chance, tell the Imperium of the sacrifices of the Valorous Heart.”

“And we’ll tell them of the Ebon Chalice,” Saradas said. “The battle was unfolding when your Sisters from the Ebon Chalice arrived. They answered the first cry for help.”

“And they…?”

“They’re fighting to the end.”

“May the Emperor remember their sacrifices for all of Eternity.” The Sister paused as she recited a silent prayer. “Go, bring word of the Chaos incursion to others. We have traitors to kill.”

“Get a kill in for us,” Saradas said.

“We’ll get you two. Good luck, _Johnathan_. Ave Imperator.”

The vox-channel closed. On the pic-screen, the remains of the Sister’s fleet moved off to jump back to Dimmimar.

“What’s the status of the engines?”

“Hot, ready, and begging for more.”

“Good. Niklas, plot a course to the nearest Imperium world. We need to get there; every second we waste is another chance for Dimmimar to be wiped out.”

 

* * *

 

Abaddon simmered in hate as he watched his fleet take position around the world below him.

“Status,” he demanded.

“We are almost ready, lord.”

Four massive support ships were moving into place. If they were still loyalist ships, they would be the ones that would launch an exterminates. But unlike their loyalist counterparts, they were war machines fueled by the blackest arts of the Dark Mechanicus. They were more daemons than ships, and they held the power to lay waste to an entire world, to reduce it to a floating ball of rock that even the most basic life would be unable to live upon.

Fortunately for the inhabitants of Dimmimar, their planet would not be destroyed…yet. He still needed to claim the Abomination on the surface for himself. Only then would the world truly be destroyed; until then, it would simply be bombed, and bombed heavily. Such a bombardment would retard the Loyalist’s movements, if not completely shut them down.

And stagnant targets were easy kills.

“Move the bombers faster, I need every monastery on the planet wiped out, bombed until not even a single atom remains.”

“Despoiler!” It was that damned sorcerer, Azubhor.

“Silence,” he snapped. “Another word, and I shall have your head.”

“But it is the warp,” Azubhor said. “Something is coming.”

“He’s right,” a mortal slave said. “There is a rift in the warp just behind us. Enemy ships are coming through!”

The quasi-alive screen switched from the view of his fleet and their position at Dimmimar to the space behind them. Nearly two dozen ships were leaving the rift. They were small ships, but enemy ships none the less. They bore the markings of the Sisters of Battle, and they were charging at the stagnant siege ships.

“Bring the fleet around,” he snapped. “Kill those damn loyalists! Now! More power to the engines! I want _Planet Killer_ to wipe them from the face of existence!”

The ship spun, pushing the inertia dampeners to their limit. But _Planet Killer_ was still a big ship, and took much to move. On the screen, he watched the arriving token fleet launch missiles and gun volleys and lance batteries at the floating bombers. He screamed as he watched their void shields flicker, absorbing the blasts, and then fail.

“Kill them!”

The fleet was finally responding, but by then, one of the bombers was gutted with a torpedo, and two more had void shields that were failing. Abaddon hammered at the hand railing as the Loyalist ships continued to advance unhindered, raining fury and fire on the bombers.

“Open fire! Blow them from the sky!!”

All of _Planet Killer’s_ guns, except the damaged main cannon, roared to life. Lines of fire traced through the void, blowing several escort ships to oblivion. The rest of the fleet had begun firing, hammering the loyalists. But the Sisters continued on, ignoring all of the incoming fire, and continued to blast the bombers. The last bomber took the full brunt of their combined fire, and snapped in two, its engines detonating in silent space, and began falling down towards the planet.

“Ready another volley, the loyalists are still breathing,” he spat.

With the bombers destroyed, the loyalist fleet turned to face the rest of his tattered fleet. They were outnumbered, outgunned and outrun, but they charged head-long into their waiting guns, utterly fearless.

The doomed ships launched volley after volley, with each ship diving into the ships, ramming them as their last act of defiance. The ships in his fleet rolled, doing their best to avoid the incoming vessels, but many were still hit by the Sisters. Whatever was left of the loyalist fleet was blasted from the sky.

“Scan the area around the planet,” Abaddon demanded. “Are there any more warp breaches?”

“None, lord.”

“Scan it again!”

“Y-yes, lord.”

Abaddon’s mind raced as he tried to formulate a plan, but the damage was done.

The Sisters had split their navy, kept half in reserve. That reserve group was waiting, waiting until they were set up to launch artillery at the planet. With the bombers destroyed, his forces on the planet would have to advance by themselves, with no aid from orbit.

Each monastery would have to be destroyed and desecrated, each stone examined and turned over to find what the Loyalists had created. And even if _Planet Killer’s_ guns were undamaged, they were too large to use. Using them might destroy the entire planet, along with the creation of the loyalists, the continued favor of the Dark Gods, and any hope of using the Abomination against the Gods to secure his rule.

“That was their mission all along,” Abaddon muttered, realization dawning on him. “They knew they could not win, so they force a stalemate. Deny us our advantages, _any_ advantage, and force a long, grueling ground battle, give them time for reinforcements.”

And he knew far too well that reinforcements were coming.

 

* * *

 

Canoness Lynia watched the pic-screen as the last of her fleet was destroyed.

“Walk with the Emperor, Sisters,” she prayed.

“What do we do now?” A non-Militant Sister asked.

“We fight, that is what. Every kilometer, every meter, every _centimeter_ will be paid in blood,” she said. “How is the tunnel excavation going?”

“The tech-priests are working as hard as they can,” the Sister replied. “How deep do the tunnels have to be?”

“As deep as they can make them,” Lynia replied. “It will only be a matter of time until the Arch-Enemy is beating at our door, despite our defenses. Tell them to dig, and to wire everything to blow. If they beach the doors to the monastery, they shall have nothing but ashes and scorched earth.”

 

* * *

 

Laura tried not to scream.

_Heretics had surrounded them._

_Half a dozen defiled Land Raiders were surrounding them, vomiting dozens of fallen Marines. Each brought blade and bolt, each screamed for their death._

_Wight was decapitated as he stood over a fallen Claw. Each Claw was dragged down, pinned with sacrificial daggers, offered up as sacrifices as they screamed and writhed._

_Uncle Helfist stood despite dozens of bleeding bolt wounds; flesh and sinew were leaking from his ravaged armor. The blessing of Fenris was holding him together, and scant else. He stood over her, doing his best to shield her with his body._

_“Laura, I’m so sorry,” he cried. “Please, they’ll do horrible things to you. This is for your own good.”_

_The last thing she saw was his bolt pistol._

Gasping for breath, Laura snapped the fabric of fate, cutting her view of the would-be off. She had to find another path for them, one that didn’t result in their death. Remembering everything her Grey Knight tutors taught her, she eased aside reality, and peered into the many possible futures.

_Gibbering, multi-limbed Spawns leapt at them. They were two packs strong, and each a perversion to nature, each psudo-pod limb ending in bladed arms. They sliced through the Claws, and overwhelmed Uncle Helfist before he could call upon Fenris for strength._

_“Laura, run,” Uncle Kemuel yelled as he charged headlong into the sea of limbs. His brother Custodes fought as best they could, but against the numbers and the fury of the Spawns, they could do little. One Custode was sliced apart in the blink of an eye._

_“Run!!”_

Laura had to bite her tongue to keep herself from yelling. Her hands shook as she was brought back to reality, the here and now.

“What have you found?” Uncle Kemuel asked.

“S-Still looking,” she stammered. Despite the fear-nausea in her stomach and the blood in her mouth, she was getting hungry again, and her damned ration bar was nearly gone. Fighting against the stomach-turning sights the future gave her, she reached into her pack and pulled out the gnawed-on bar and stuffed the rest in her mouth.

“Damn, Laura, save some for later,” Uncle Helfist said. “We’ve barely been out here a week.”

Now that she had something in her belly, she could really focus. The lines of fate became easier to see, easier to focus on. She found their place in the tapestry of fate, and traced the lines further up, seeing the many possible futures that laid in wait for them.

Uncle Helfist was right; this was no way to fight, to lose her mind in the what-ifs and almost-would-be. She needed to fight the way Russ intended; with bolt and blade. Hopefully this would be the last time she ever had to peer into the future.

“There,” she said, bringing her full mind and concentration back to the present. “There’s a squad that’s gonna be here soon. Get the Claws over there. Uncle Kemuel, can you and the Custodes get down the alleyway over there? We need you to cut off their escape.”

Laura peered out from behind the ruined wall. The alleyway was cramped, the perfect place for an ambush. The alley would lead them around Uncle-Sergeant Julas; if they flanked him and his Devestators, they could very well help collapse this front.

She got to her feet and went to join the Blood Claws. She itched, but not a skin itch, more like a deep bone itch, like she was a young teen again, growing into the woman she was now.

Just as she saw in her vision, a group of traitors was coming their way. They were wearing desecrated Terminator armor, nearly ten in all, with horns growing out of the helms and massive weapons bolted to and growing from their arms.

“Get ready, this is gonna be a big fight,” Uncle Helfist said.

“Oh, I know,” she replied. Laura eased open the gates of infinity and pulled power from the other side, enough to activate the runes of her sword. Power that almost looked like flames coursed along the blade’s length. “Hold…now!”

She ran from the ruined building and took aim with her Volkite blaster. The lead heretic had flesh growing from his left arm, mating with the multi-melta he carried. Her shot hit the vulnerable flesh, boiling the flesh in an instant, igniting it so fast it burst into flames.

The heretic screamed as his entire arm was seared. He involuntary thrashed in a vain attempt to extinguish it, hitting two of his squad mates. With the Terminator armor augmenting his strength, he ended up crushing the helm of the one directly behind him. It might not be a kill, but it would keep them off balance.

Bolt guns chattered, and the Claws were charging.

_“Fenrys hjolda!”_

_“Fenrys hjolda!”_ Laura added her voice to the scream, for whatever it was worth. She absentmindedly wondered that, if they survived, she would ever be able to see her mother’s home.

The Claws hit the traitors, but everyone seemed slow to react. Laura lashed out with her sword, aiming at the joints between the thick slabs of black armor. The edge of her sword bit into it, and the psykic energy arced through the traitor’s body, frying his brain and hearts. He was dead before the Claws hit them.

The traitors fought back, but that was when Uncle Kemuel and his Custode brothers stepped from the ruins. They brought their spears to bear, and sliced the heretics apart, but it was like they were moving under water.

Laura blinked. When Uncle Kemuel and the Custodes first started fighting, their movements were a blur to her; but now it was like Uncle Kemuel was also slowing down. She knew the Custodes were skilled, more so than the Vlka, but were they just not used to fighting? Had they grown soft from their endless guard duty?

“Nice kill,” Uncle Helfist grinned. “Kemuel, you sure you haven’t been in any wars lately? That was top fucking form.”

Top form? Laura was sure they were moving too slow.

“Laura! Can’t zone out in a battlefield,” Uncle Helfist said. “Were you able to scry anything in the future? Enemy positions, movements, reinforcements or the like?”

“Oh, uh, no, not really.”

“Get ready to move out. Who’s hurt? Still got some balm left before we run out. And scavenge any ammo you can; bolts don’t care who their user worships, as long as they get a brain to be shot into. Come on, plenty of work to do.”

Was she getting sick again? No, that wasn’t right. What kind of sickness made things slow down, speed her up? She needed her meds. But for some reason, she felt fine. Better than fine; she didn’t feel the slightest bit sick. Hopefully it would stay that way.

 

* * *

 

“Hold the line, Sisters!”

Lethora didn’t need to hear the order. It was repeated endlessly, second to ‘die well.’ She gripped her bolter tighter and kept firing. It felt like they were fighting for days or weeks instead of a day. The black armor of the traitors was a wall that advanced closer and closer with every passing minute, pushing them further and further against the wreckage of the fallen building that was behind them. Lethora and her sisters would gun down one, and two would step to take his place.

At first, it made her giddy with joy. She had fantasized about fighting an endless army of heretics; more than enough to vent her fury upon. But now that she was living her fantasy, it was just too draining.

“I’m running out of ammo,” she cried hoarsely. She had long ago shouted away her voice. “Where is there extra?”

“Somewhere at the end of the heretics,” one of her sisters yelled back.

Behind the wall of black armored death strode more daemon engines. A volley of lascannon shots punched through the armor of one. Something inside it blew up, tearing the creature apart. The other daemon engines saw this, and decided that maybe cover was a good thing to have.

“Incoming,” Lethora’s Superior yelled. From the skies, another squad of Saraphim descended. They landed among the foremost lines of the heretics like a wrathful blow from a hammer. Just the force of their landing was able to kill a few of them. Lethora jumped as a handful of magazines were pushed into her hand, as well as a melta bomb.

“Our sisters are buying us time,” the Superior said. “Get ready, and use this as your last weapon. Die well.”

“May the Emperor smile upon us,” she mumbled, taking the bomb. Die well? She could do that. As long as she could take some damned heretic with her to the grave. She mag-locked the melta bomb to her back.

The Saraphim fought wildly, driving the heretics back, giving them more room to breathe. Lethora slammed a fresh clip into her bolter. Looking up, she saw with amazement that the Saraphim were able to wipe the squad of heretics from the face of existence. They charged wildly towards the next group of traitors, screaming for fury and blood.

From a few of the side alleys Immolators arrived. They were scarred from enemy fire, with many leaking fuel or oil, while others were actually on fire. Considering that they were holding dozens of gallons of promethium fuel for their many flamers and melta-guns, they were rolling death traps.

She shouldered her bolter again and opened fire, just as the last Saraphim was cut down. How many had she killed? Did it really matter? The ground shook as one Immolator was blown up. In its death blast, it took several traitors with it. Lethora wished she could have such a death.

A massive blow hit her in the chest, sending her flying. Somehow, her armor deflated it. She hit the ground in near blackness. Every gasp was the worst pain she had ever felt, like her lungs were tearing themselves apart, and she could feel blood pouring over her eyes. It didn’t matter how much blood she wiped off, she just couldn’t see more than a foot in front of her.

 _Emperor, please grant me the strength to continue,_ she prayed while trying to get to her feet. She fell, but a fellow sister caught her.

“Easy,” she said. “Take my hand, we shall fight together.”

“Y-yes,” Lethora gasped. She could barely see her hand in front of her face. “Can you hold me steady? I don’t think I can see.”

“Your eyes, sister. There’s…shrapnel in them.”

Lethora brought her hand to her face, but the slightest bit of pressure sent her screaming.

“We shall make them pay. Take my melta, I shall help you.”

Lethora blinked, doing her best to ignore the scratching at her eyelid. Through the blood and haze, she was able to see that her fellow sister was missing an arm.

“A bad hit,” her sister said.

“We’ll make them pay,” Lethora said. “You still have your eyes, yes?”

Her sister pulled her up, and pressed the heavy multi-melta into her hands.

“There, eleven o’clock.”

Lethora steadied herself against her sister’s body, aimed as best she could and let lose a blast.

“Winged one,” her sister said. “You repaid my lost arm.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dissata.”

“I’m Lethora. Let’s make the enemy pay.”

“Gladly.”

Dissata called out another target. Lethora adjusted her aim, and let lose a blast.

“Killed a heretic.”

“Give me another!”

All she had to do was stay on her feet and shoot. Dissata kept her upright and supplied with targets. With her eyes nearly gone, she couldn’t see the line of heretics. For some reason, it made her feel better, not seeing the enemy. There was only the shake of the melta, and Dissata’s gleeful voice as she confirmed her kills.

“This is our glory, Sister,” Lethora said.

“Ours alone,” Dissata said. “There, nearly three o’clock. More to the right.”

The sounds of battle droned on, but seemed to grow quieter. First the rumble of the Immolators ended, then the sounds of chainswords stopped. The echo of bolt guns lasted longer, but was slowly quieted. The bellowing report of the bolt’s detonations ended, one by one, and the whoosing sound of flamers was slowly silenced. Dread built in Lethora’s gut, but she kept her hands firm and the melta firing.

Eventually, the snap-boiling of the melta was all she could hear. That and the dreadful sound of approaching footsteps.

“They can’t get away from us now, Sister,” Dissata said, swallowing hard. “To the right! Two o’clock! Left, further. There!”

Lethora pulled the trigger, and felt something sharp cut her cheek. It was so sharp, it was as if a line of fire had burned her. 

“Dissata, where do I aim?”

“Dissata? Oh, she is dead,” a voice whispered.

Suddenly she was pulled into the air. An armored hand was at her throat, crushing her neck.

“Your pathetic attempt at a defense has failed,” the deep voice of the fallen marine laughed. “You have fallen, your sisters have fallen, and this planet shall fall to the Despoiler. Everything—what are you laughing at, dear sister? What is so damned funny?”

Lethora could make out the details in the damned purple armor, every last bit of it.

“It’s just that I can actually see you.”

She disengaged the mag-lock to the melta-bomb on her back, and stuck it in the face of the traitor marine that held her. Before anyone could react, she thumbed the detonation switch.

 

* * *

 

Onairam rushed through the rubble on the streets, crushing the dead bodies of the Sisters of Battle under his foot wherever he could. The whores demanded worse, and they would surely be getting worse. But for the time being, he had to be with the Lord Ravenger as they destroyed the last of the Sister defensive.

The Lord Ravenger had spearheaded the attack, and had finally reached the fallen building that the loyalists brought down. He held one Sister in the air, ready to desecrate her body and sacrifice it to the Dark Gods.  But for some damn reason, the Sister in Devram’s hand was laughing.

“What are you laughing at, dear sister? What is so damned funny?”

Onairam was able to get a good look at the last surviving sister. Bits of metal shrapnel were sticking from her eyes, to say nothing of the torrents of blood that she was crying.

“It’s just that I can actually see you,” she said.

In one swift motion, the Sister slapped a melta-bomb on the face of the Lord Ravenger. A sun suddenly blossomed, and the next instant, there was nothing left, neither of the Sister nor the Lord Ravenger.

Suddenly, Onairam realized that the entire battlefield was too damn quiet. His stomachs started flipping.

“The Lord Ravenger is dead,” someone said. He strode forward in beautiful armor, an etched power sword in his right hand, a plasma pistol in his left, and cruel jump packs almost growing from his back. It was a raptor, a predator of the shadows. “To me, brothers, and we shall—“

The raptor was crushed as he tried to speak. A massive, mutated marine in the remains of Terminator armor had approached him and crushed him with massive, mutated chain fist.

“To you? I would rather die than follow a weakling such as you,” the mutilator spat. “No fighting in the shadows! We face down the loyalists and…!”

A blast enveloped the mutilator, burning his flesh.

“Follow a bat-shit crazed simpleton such as you?” A fallen marine laughed, tossing a grenade from hand to hand. “No, we need to follow the true path of strength! And I say that you are a weakling that lets daemons do the fighting for him.”

The mutilator bellowed and charged the challenging marine. Those that belonged to the mutilator’s coven joined him, as did the marine’s squad. Onairam was suddenly very self-conscious of his back.

Guns began firing again, this time at members of the Black Legion. The daemon engines seemed confused by the action, but ultimately decided to join the melee. They tried to stride from the buildings they were using for cover, but missiles and lascannons pushed them back.

“What do we do?” Someone in Onairam’s group asked.

“These damn idiots,” he hissed. “I shall raise a vox to the Despoiler. The rest of you, get to cover, get ready to shoot whoever I say to shoot.”

“The Despoiler would not like hearing of this.”

“He would not like _not_ hearing about it, either,” Onairam snapped. “We need his authority, else the loyalists will win. Move, now.”

 

* * *

 

“Damned heretics,” Julas laughed. “This is why a clear chain of command is needed.”

Julas switched to the vox channel. _Helfist, do you hear me?_

 _Hold on a sec,_ the Space Wolf grunted. The whirling noise of a chainaxe ground in the background. A heavy crunch was heard; no doubt Helfist was living up to his name _. What is it?_

_The Sisters of the Ebon Chalice have finally fallen._

_Allfather damn those heretics. What’s happening?_

_It appears as though the last surviving sister killed a leader. They are fighting amongst themselves._

_Damn, those Sisters are something,_ Helfist laughed. _We’re still behind enemy lines. You get your Devastator squads to move back; we’ll be fine out here for the time. We’ll keep hitting supply lines._

 _Good hunting, brother,_ Julas said. He switched vox channels. _Canoness Lynia, do you read me?_

 _Loud and clear,_ the Sister of Battle said. No doubt she was waiting for his report on the vox.

_The Ebon Chalice has finally fallen._

_They survived longer than anyone would have expected,_ the Canoness said. _Instead of a day, they nearly gave us two. We must honor their memory. Move back, our Sisters are in position behind the barrier. Croan and the tech priests also have a few surprises in store for the traitors._

_Falling back, Canoness. Go with the Emperor._

_Walk in His light._

 

* * *

 

“Our Sisters have fallen,” Uncle Helfist said.

Laura’s heart jumped to her throat; her gut clenched. She didn’t want this.

The very feeling made her blink. Why didn’t she want what…? Where did that feeling come from?

“Those bolter bitches better show up in Valhalla,” a Claw spat.

“We’ll make sure they do,” Uncle Helfist said. “In their last stand, they killed someone with a very big, important hat; the heretics are fighting like damned orks.”

Wight laughed. Even Uncle Kemuel chuckled.

“If they’re busy fighting each other, we need to press the attack,” Laura said.

“Damned right you are!” Uncle Helfist said. “While they’re watching their backs, they won’t be watching their shit. Form up, get moving. We find some heretics, we steal their ammo and blow up what we can’t carry. Any bolt we deny to the front stretches this fight out. Let’s move.”

 

* * *

 

The mutilator and the traitor marine had been fighting for nearly a full day, each of their followers refusing to yield an inch.

Bolter fire raked Onairam’s armor, and he pulled himself back behind the remains of an Immolator. Dammit, why were they fighting each other? Was this how things always were in the Black Legion? Doubt gnawed at his gut.

No, this was better than living on his knees, begging, groveling and pleading for scraps of scraps. Here, he was Chosen. It was only a matter of time before all the others saw it. Onairam just had to keep his faith, he had to keep serving the Dark Gods.

“Look,” someone gasped.

Onairam peered out from behind the wrecked Immolator. Striding through the battle, a demigod among the super-human, was the Despoiler himself. And the look of rage on his face could give pause to a Bloodletter of Khorne.

He stormed into the melee between the mutilator and the marine. He drew his sword, a massive daemon blade, and plunged it into the neck of the lead mutilator, the one who had thought he could easily step into the role of Lord Ravenger.

The daemon-infused traitor gasped and gurgled as the blade began ending his life. But he was still alive, and the Despoiler wasn’t finished. He plunged his talons into the mutilator’s neck, and then he began pulling.

Onairam heard a deep ripping sound, the sheering of metal, and suddenly the mutilator came apart, pulled in half by the monstrous Abaddon. Guts and viscera showered the ground. And then he turned to the offending chaos marine.

“No,” the simple marine begged. “Please, forgive me. I yield!”

The talons were sunk into his gut. His armor might as well have been wet tissue paper for all the good it did.

The Despoiler picked him up, ignoring the great gouts of blood that poured from the wound. He threw him to the ground with enough force to crack bones, and he lifted his massive boot. It came down with the force of a wrecking ball, bursting the marine’s head like it was a melon. Onairam was meters away, but pieces of brain still hit him.

“This is why the Slave of the Corpse Emperor mocks us!” Abaddon bellowed. “We cannot face their forces when we face ourselves! Our Sisters have beaten us, and you simply prove them right! Three days they cost us; three!

“You are slaves. Slaves! Shacked to my will and my will alone. If I tell you to die, you should ask me how. Obey me, or end like these two.”

He didn’t need to point; all eyes were on the remains of the mutilator and the marine.

“Where is the one who calls himself Onairam?” He demanded.

Oh, shit.

“Where is he?!”

“Here.” Where Onairam found the courage to step forward, he knew not. The Despoiler stormed up to him.

“You are the one who brought this issue to me, are you not?” The Despoiler hissed, leaning close. Onairam was used to being of super-human height, but the Despoiler was still a head taller. It made him feel small, weak, and angry. “Why do you not kneel?”

What did the Despoiler know of his troubles? Of his sacrifices? What did the Despoiler know of the brothers he buried? They were in the ground, there very names forgotten, nothing but a brick in the wall of the uncaring Imperium. What did the Despoiler know of the lines he had to cross, the things he had to do and of the tribulations that plagued him?

“I have spent a lifetime of service to the False Emperor on my knees,” Onairam spat. The Despoiler knew nothing of his plights. Damn him along with the Carrion Lord. “I have tasted enough subservience to last me until the stars go out. I will _not_ kneel again.”

The Despoiler’s face twisted into a grin.

“Ah, a new addition, acting like the oldest of us,” he said. “Of all the wrong answers, that was the _least_ wrong.”

Onairam held his breath, waiting for death.

“You are the new Lord Ravenger.”

“I-I am?”

“You have pleased me. Where others would grovel and plead, or worse, _lied_ , you told the truth,” Abaddon said. “’The Lord Ravenger is dead, and the men fight for his place.’ Yet you have kept several squads in cohesion.” He gestured to the squads behind him. “That tells me you can control. And control is what we need.”

“Thank you, Despoiler.”

“Do not thank me, fear me, for I feel that you shall only live a short while in this role and there are _plenty_ of others to choose from,” Abaddon said. “Summon a warpsmith. Force him to forge you better gear. And get this damn pile of rubble out of the way. We need to crush our Sisters, and take this capitol. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Despoiler.”

“I expect you to make head way by the end of the day. Fight well, for I will most likely kill you in the morning.”

Daemon engines walked forward, and Abaddon walked backwards.

“Start digging,” Onairam ordered. The massive daemon-forced weapons bowed their heads, and heeded his command. He couldn’t stop grinning.

 _The Emperor demands obedience, but the Dark Ones promise the universe,_ he thought. _Oh, how right they were. How_ right _they were to choose me over all else!_

A massive explosion rocked the rubble. A daemon engine moaned in pain before it fell to the ground, dying.

“Lord Ravenger, what just happened?” Abaddon asked. He might have asked sweetly, but Onairam now knew his temper.

“Our brothers and sisters have mined the building,” he said. “There are melta bombs in the rubble.”

“Then find who you feel is unworthy and have them trip the bombs.”

“I was just thinking of who could ‘volunteer.’”

 

* * *

 

_“Fenrys hjolda!”_

The Claws broke from the alley, running full-tilt at the ambushed traitors. The traitors hardly had time to react.

“Scan the streets,” Uncle Kemuel said, bringing his spear around. They were hidden on a small causeway overlooking the street. “We cannot let anyone else join in the fray.”

“I got nothing,” Helfist said. “Laura?”

“I’m not seeing anything,” she said.

The Claws howled as they tore into the traitors, killing the last one.

“Greybeard, help,” Wight yelled.

“Damn it all,” Helfist cursed. He jumped down, sprinting into the fray.

“Stay on guard, brothers,” Uncle Kemuel said. “Go with him, Laura. We know how close you are to the wolves.”

Laura vaulted over the railing of the causeway. Normally such a fall would be jarring, but she landed lightly on her feet, like the five-meter fall was nothing. She didn’t have much time to think much of it; ahead of her, the Vlka were forming a circle around a fallen body.

“Wight, what happened?” Uncle Helfist asked as he ran over.

“Bad hit.”

The Claw in question was lying on the ground, with Wight holding his head. Blood freely bubbled from his chest where the armor was caved in.

“It was a power maul,” another Claw said. “He nearly got away from it, too.”

“Red Sleep,” Wight said.

“Damn,” Uncle Helfist said. “We can’t have a Claw who’s in a damn healing coma. Shit, this makes things hard.”

“We have to make camp,” Laura said. “We make a makeshift camp and rig it to blow.”

“Who blows it?” Wight asked.

“Hopefully him, if he wakes up,” she said, pointing to the unconscious Claw.

“Sounds like a decent plan,” Uncle Helfist said. “Lots of things gotta line up, but we’ll worry about that later. Laura, you and Kemuel find us a good spot to hole up in. Wight, help me carry this fool. The rest of you grab all the ammo you can, especially those artillery shells. Blow up what you can’t carry.”

Nodding, Laura ran back to the Custodes. The massive guards had moved down to the ground level, holding their spears tight.

“We have had an eye on a few locations in the area,” Uncle Kemuel said. “We will lead the way, prepare the area. Come.”

Laura was easily able to keep up with the Custodes, her hands tight on her blaster and sword. She jumped as an explosion tore through the city. Looking behind her, she saw a new set of ruins where the traitor’s ammo-laden Rhinos were.

They ran down three blocks, each block getting seemingly more and more destroyed. Many houses were blasted open, with many missing their roofs and most of their walls.

“This city’s getting filled with death,” she said.

“It has not seen the full fury of the Black Legion, or of war,” her uncle said. “Brace yourself, Laura; you have not seen the full extent of war.”

She swallowed hard. She had grown up hearing of the tales of the Vlka, of the many bloody deeds of their endless, nameless heroes, and have heard of the evil of the Arch-Enemy, but seeing it was something different. She felt herself grow ill, but at the same time, it all seemed familiar; some kind of ancient, damned shame, but a damned shame that was unavoidable.

“We are here.”

That jerked Laura back to reality. The house in question was a three-story building that was somehow not only standing, but seemed in decent order. It still had a roof, untouched by missiles or falling, blasted debris. The Custodes began making their way up the stairs.

“We’re going to the top floor?” She asked.

“It will force the heretics to endure two floors of traps.”

She turned. A block and a half back were the Vlka with the rest of the Custodes. She waved in battle-sign, pointing to the house.

“That is the wrong battle-sign,” Uncle Kemuel said. “You signal ‘shelter’ like this.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Learn quickly; mistakes cost lives.”

Coached by her uncle, Laura followed him inside.

“Careful,” he snapped. “You cannot open a door like that, it exposes you. Stand next to the knob, on the other side, and thrust it open. Be ready to move back; walls are not bolt-proof.”

The house became more crowded as the Claws entered.

“To the top floor,” Uncle Kemuel said. “The area is clear.”

The floors creaked under the weight of the Vlka and the Custodes, but it held.

“Laura, you like playing with things that go ‘boom?’” Uncle Helfist asked.

“Hel yea.”

“Good answer. We got some artillery shells from that Rhino; let’s get this place wired up.”

 

* * *

 

Everything hurt.

Aevar had been awake so long that his body was just aching from simply being awake. Space Marines were superhuman, built to withstand such punishment, but staying awake and working non-stop for nearly two full weeks was just too much for anyone, even the gene-enhanced physiology of the Sky Warriors.

He just needed a good night of sleep to make him as right as rain. Just a single night’s rest, that was all.

“Fucking heretics,” he grumbled, making his way through the empty hallway. The civilians were being moved to the basement of the monastery, as well as into the tunnels they were digging into the mountain. Here, there was little reason for anyone to darken the hallway. “Making me work this damn hard. Bastards.”

He finally got to his chambers and pushed the doors open. Since Captain Agostina arrived bearing word of the Black Legion’s arrival, his workshop had been emptied. Every tool was being used; every die, every bar, every scrap piece of material, it all went to the war effort. This left the large room awfully bare, which made it all the more surprising that Canoness Lynia was sitting at a desk, wearing her full armor.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said. Lynia jerked up, snapped out of what seemed to be a gentle nap that was leading to deep sleep.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her scars twisting into a smile. “I, I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Intruding on a damn good nap, that’s all.”

“So even the Emperor’s Chosen need to rest. You truly are human.”

“More so than you’d know,” he said, walking over. He pulled up a chair and sat down. “And to what do I owe for the pleasure of this visit?”

“You can thank the invasion for this visit,” the Canoness said. “Like you, I’m overworked, overstressed and under-fed. This is the only place where I can get any solitude. I’ve had to take to simple oatmeal for much of my meals.”

“Aye, I know that all too well. I’ve been living on the scraps that the kitchen is turning out.”

“Scraps? Why should you be feasting upon scraps?”

“Because all the real food is going to the fleeing civilians,” he said. “And they need a square meal in their belly to help put them at ease.”

“How selfless of you.”

“Could say the same about your oatmeal gouging.”

Lynia smiled. With her exhaustion, the wrinkles in her face were pronounced. 

“I guess we truly are selfless to a fault,” she said.

“I’ve heard that a few times myself,” Ironclaws nodded. “How are things going out there?”

“The Sisters of the Ebon Chalice have fallen.”

“I’ve heard that,” he said. “We’ll make the traitors pay.”

Lynia nodded, but the weariness in her eyes didn’t go away.

“Hey, I said we’ll make them pay.”

“Oh, I know. Their lives were not in vein,” Lynia said. “But I can’t stop thinking if it was the right thing to do.”

“Can’t go thinking that, especially now.”

“I know, I know, but…”

“Let me guess: every time you close your eyes, you see them?”

Lynia nodded. “How can I know that was the right thing to do?”

“It was the _only_ thing they could do,” he said. “They were running into the guns of the heretics. Not much room for finessing things.”

“I just hope they find peace with the Emperor,” Lynia muttered. “How can you do that? Be so sure in yourself?”

“Because I have to be. Someone once told me that the second a leader starts questioning himself, it’s over. For him, for the men under his command, and for everyone who’s counting on him.”

“He sounds like a wise man.”

“A rat bastard he was,” Aevar snorted. Lynia stared at him. “Oh yea, sure, he knew a thing or two. Was good in a fight, better at planning, but he was a fucking bastard and he knew it.”

“Where is that man now?”

“Well, part of him is probably being used as skin by some damn Necron somewhere. The rest of him got burned up in a sun. His thread was cut a few centuries back; went down swinging, the only thing we can ever truly ask for. So, we gave him a funeral fit for a jarl, then shot what we could recover into the nearest sun.

“You think the Claws that have been coming out here were making a mess of things? You haven’t seen shit until you’ve seen a Jarl be put to rest. Enough booze to strip the paint off your armor and enough food to choke an army. Everyone feasts and drinks until they’re seeing doubles, and we all share stories of the man who passed.”

“And how were the stories of this ‘Jarl?’”

“He was a fucking bastard. Said it before, I’ll say it again; he was just a rat fucking bastard. Had plenty of brothers from other companies come over to spit on his grave. But damn did they respect him. He could plan like it was no one’s business, make it so that the enemy never saw the smile that killed ‘em, and if they did see it, they’ll spread their fear to those in the afterlife, to let them know that, someday, we’ll be down there with them, and we’ll be hunting them all over again.”

“You Vlka are true pieces of work,” Lynia laughed.

“We aim to please,” Aevar smiled. “And ‘Vlka?’ No ‘Space Wolf’ or ‘brainless barbarians?’”

“I’ve called you those things enough times in the past.”

“Don’t go getting soft on me now, you old bat.”

Lynia smiled, resting her head on her hand.

“Be honest with me,” she said. “What are our chances of surviving this? I know we can’t beat the Black Legion off, but do you truly think that we can survive?”

“Best I can say is that we’re in for one Hel of a fight,” Aevar said. “We’re doing what we planned on doing; neither of us truly owns the skies. And since the traitors don’t control the skies, we can fight them on the ground; we can bleed them try. Give ‘em nothing but scorched earth for their trouble.”

He looked over. Lynia had fallen asleep, her head still propped in her hand. Only her armor was keeping her upright. Aevar got up, and gently carried the aged Canoness to his chambers, lying her on his cot. After a second’s hesitation, he gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Rest up, Lynia. You’ll need everything you can get.” He laughed. “Shit, we all do.”

He grabbed a thin pillow and several books, making a little headrest on the ground. He finally was able to get some damn sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Move,” Onairam snapped. “This road has to be clear!”

Using daemon engines was out of the question; they couldn’t be wasted on clearing the bomb-filled rubble. He was briefed on how many of the precious engines they had left; the number was dwindling since the start of the battle, and was falling dangerously low.

Using men was out of the question, too. Not only had he already killed those who he despised and displeased him, but the Black Legion could not sustain the attrition rate. As the new Lord Ravenger, he was told how many men he could waste and still maintain full combat power. Suddenly Onairam had to keep track of the number of men, what they were doing, how much they could afford to lose to things such as traps left by the Loyalists, and that wasn’t even taking into account their rate of ammo consumption.

It came down to using modified Rhinos to try and push the rubble aside. The good news was that the ships that were dead in the void were a good source of adamantium plating, which made good plows.

Onairam had subservient brothers bring pieces of ruined hull-armor down from orbit, where they were turned into plows and dozers blades. The hulking piece of metal were nearly a full foot of hull-grade adamantium; they were scuffed, dented, bruised and burned, but by and far they were still in one piece. It was starting to look like a strong breeze might knock the blades over, but they just needed to hold out a little bit more.

The Rhino’s engine growled as gears caught and were engaged. Rhinos rolled back, and more rubble came tumbling down. There was a waiting melta-bomb, for as the debris and rubble fell, something detonated. The explosion rang out, throwing more rubble and dust into the air.

A second Rhino moved in from the side, brushing the pile of rubble to the side. They were slowly, but surely, making forward progress. The fallen building was being breached, and with it, the next step of the invasion.

“Lord Ravenger.”

‘Onairam’ was a name he picked for himself. He liked hearing it, more than his dead name from when his armor was blue. But hearing others call him ‘Lord Ravenger…’ Onairam was taking a strong liking to _that_ name. He loved to hear the fear and awe in the voice of the speaker. How the Gods were right: he was Chosen, and everyone was starting to see it.

“Word from around the city,” an approaching marine said. “They expect to breach the barricades within three hours.”

“Excellent. We have already wasted more than a week with this damned setback. Be sure to have the Land Raiders and Rhinos ready. We push forward, establish new beachheads, and continue moving forward.”

He breathed in deeply as the subservient marine walked away. He could feel the power of the Dark Ones coursing through his veins. The warpsmith he summoned had worked wonders on him. The work was excruciating, nearly unbearably painful, but the results were worth it.

Onairam’s flesh was one with his armor, a twisted fusion of tendons, muscle and the powered plasteel of his former armor. It was powerful, more resilient than it had ever been in the past. His muscles crackled with energy, waiting for the chance to commit more acts of murder.

His two hearts pumped, beating at a powerful but easy pace. They burned as they grew accustomed to the fluids they pushed through his body, for it was no longer blood, but a mixture of molten brass, virulent pus, searing ichor and psychedelic narcotics.

A handful of large pieces from the crumbling barricade nearly hit him. Onairam never knew it, but the large pieces of rubble were somehow, strangely, turned aside just before they struck him. The blessing of the Dark Gods was truly upon him.

With his body changed, the last thing that he had cast aside was the power sword of the former Aspiring Champion. He had given it to one of his men who had shown great promise by keeping order in his stead. In its place, he carried a power scourge. Three flails danged from a handle by steel chains. Each flail was cast in the eight-pointed star of Chaos, and cackled with energy.

He was finally getting what was rightfully his, what was promised to him so long ago.

_You are special: you are our Chosen. You have seen the chains that have bound you, and you have freed yourself from their clutches._

Oh, how _right_ they were.

The mountain of rubble shifted, at first audibly, but soon visibly. Chunks of rebar-enforced concrete collapsed, pouring down the street. The massive pile fell, losing any semblance of a barricade. Where it was once three stores tall, the ruined building began coming apart, at first down to two stores, then one, then to rubble that was barely four feet tall.

The barricade was down for barely a second before the air was filled with loyalist fire. The trap was sprung.

“Push forward!”

The Rhinos’ engines ground as their gears caught, and pushed forward, moving more and more of the rubble aside. Their dozer blades buckled under the fire, eventually being punctured. They exploded from penetrating hits, but their purpose was served.

Behind them, Land Raiders roared into the fight. They pushed the burning bodies of the Rhinos forward, using them as shields. Then the ground exploded, throwing one Land Raider in the air.

The loyalists had the time to plant mines. And Onairam could not waste any more precious assault vehicles.

“Call in the helldrakes,” Onairam ordered. “Sweep the streets, that should clear the mines. We need to push forward.”

He strode forward, climbing the mound of rubble. It was truly a glorious day.

The street before him stretched on for what seemed like miles. Every building that could hold people was shooting at them. Trenches were dug into the ground, and from them, Sisters of Battle fired endlessly. It was a wall-to-wall shooting gallery.

“Perfect,” Onairam grinned from behind his helmet.

A shriek split the heavens. A helldrake, a twisted and cruel daemon engine that had grown from a Valkarie ship flew in, its large, metal wings beating in slow, even pulses. Its mouth was the former cockpit, and Onairam could hear the wails of the former crew as the daemon gnawed on their souls.

It swooped low, losing a blast of fire from its mouth. The ground exploded as mines were tripped, and the chatter of anti-air guns intensified.

The helldrake reeled from the fire, trying to gain altitude, but a volley of lascannon fire punched through its chest. The thing fell, screaming and dying, another mounting loss they could not afford. But its work was done.

“Move forward,” he ordered. By his word, the push began again. It was about time that everyone knew how blessed he was, how he and he alone had the favor of the Gods.


	27. The Siege of Dimmimar

Dread was in Julas’ gut. He did not know why, but it was there.

The traitor forces were pushing deeper. But every turret-placement, each trench, each roll of barbed wire and buried bundle of mines, and all the Sister of Battle’s troop deployment was designed for area-denial. Everything was designed to make the traitors pay for each advance, and they were paying. But they still pushed on.

The multi-melta snap-boiled the air around him again, threatening to make the paint peel from his armor. It would be the first time since his arrival on Dimmimar that his armor was being used for its actual purpose.

Julas ground his teeth and found another target to shoot at. He had not been at war since…since his squad was butchered. And he was not even there to witness it.

 

* * *

  
 

_He stood on a field of death. Corpses were everywhere, mostly human. Dead bodies were falling from the heavens, and it was raining blood. There was no ground; he stood atop the dead that littered the plain. From one end of the horizon to the other, there was only death._

 

* * *

 

Even though he was awake, the Nightmare was still haunting him; it was almost as if it was all coming true.

A door was battered open behind him. He turned and saw a Sister leading a team of five dead-eyed and drooling servitors into the building. The Sister entered in a huff, carrying heavy battery cells for a lascannon. The servitors, augmented for muscles, carried enough ammunition to make the floor creak, groan, and threaten to collapse. Even to Astartes the ammo would be backbreaking.

“Ammo up,” she cheerfully called. She was a strange Sister, both sworn to the Order, but also a member of the Mechanicus, with bionic arms bearing the Cog of Mars.

“You are truly an angel sent from the right hand of the Emperor,” a brother Black Templar said.

“I bet you just say that to all the girls carrying ammo,” she teased.

“Re-arm the lascannons, first,” Julas ordered. “We need their range.”

Connections were severed, packs were swapped, and soon the lascannons were operational again. The heavy bolters were next, with the sweet jingling of belt-fed bolts rattling against each other. They were dragged through feeders, wound in a tight pattern, and re-fed through the massive guns. Soon they were back to thunderously chattering, spewing fire at the Black Legion.

“Best for last,” the Sister said, approaching Julas with the servitors at her heels. “Unclip the connections.”

Julas killed the fuel to the melta. The connection tube hissed, leaking promethean vapors as it was disconnected. Servitors pawed at his armor; he could feel them scrapping at the backpack, uncoupling it and disconnecting it. At first, he dipped backwards from their grabbing, then nearly tilted forward as the weight was suddenly released.

“Halfway there,” the Sister said. “Weight’s coming.”

He braced himself, and fought against the sudden weight that landed on his back.

“Got it hooked on. Here, grab this.”

Julas took the fuel tube and hooked it back up to the melta. The gun hissed as the fuel was reconnected. His helm scanned the new fuel source, and gauged it as full.

“Holy Emperor, grant me the strength to continue to face our enemies,” he prayed. The multi-melta’s pilot light caught, and the weapon’s machine spirit growled.

“Good to go,” the Sister called, slapping his shoulder. “Kill some heretics.”

“With glee, Sister,” the Black Templar called.

 _Bombardment incoming,_ the vox crackled. _Get to cover!_

Julas didn’t know who called for cover, but he instinctively ducked behind a thick pillar of concrete, pulling the Sister with him. Massive explosions rocked the ruins and tested his armor, but it remained steady.

“Status,” Julas called.

 _Traitor armor is targeting us._ It was the second Devastator squad from across the boulevard.  _We have wounded._

“Stay strong, brothers. We will withdraw shortly.” He switched vox channels. “Dragonsword, this is Julas. We have wounded and need to be relieved. Are there available Mechanicus troops to support us as we withdraw?”

 _They are in short supply,_ the Salamander said, _but we will have a team ready shortly._

“My thanks. All teams, stay strong, we will be relieved shortly. Sister, are you hurt?”

“Na, just rattled,” the woman said. “They didn’t kill any servitors, did they?”

“A few appear to be dead.”

“Damn them, we’re running low on servitors,” she hissed. “Need to run more ammo, kill the bastards for me.”

 _Uncle-Sergeant Julas,_ the vox crackled, _are you there?_

“Laura? Is that you?”

_Yes! We need firepower on the following coordinates._

“You are not at the front—“

 _We’re at_ one _front, and we need firepower! A Land Raider is moving up, and we need it taken out!_

“What are the coordinates?”

What was she doing out in the middle of this war? It mattered not; Laura called out the coordinates, and he entered them in his helm, and it zoomed in to the spot. Sure enough, another Land Raider was approaching at extreme distances.

“Lascannons, focus fire. All other units, remain on target.”

_Thank you._

“Remain vigilant. The Emperor protects.”

 

* * *

 

“Uncle-Sergeant Julas, are you there?” Laura shouted, pressing herself to the ruined pillar, fighting for every scrap of cover it gave her.

_Laura? Is that you?_

“Yes! We need firepower at the following coordinates.”

_You are not at the front—_

“We’re at _one_ front, and we need firepower!” She yelled, cutting her Uncle-Sergeant off. A defiled Land Raider pushed forward, the lascannons blazing. Blood Claws dove for cover in the ruined building. One was cut in half. “A Land Raider is moving up, and we need it taken out!”

_What are the coordinates?_

She quickly rattled them off, pushing herself further in back of the pillar. The heretic’s lascannon fired again, but she couldn’t see if it hit anything. She hoped no one was killed.

_Lascannons, focus fire. All other units, remain on target._

Another brilliant volley of lascannons lit up the air, but this time, it was the Land Raider was shredded.

“Thank you.”

_Remain vigilant. The Emperor protects._

There was part of her that was _really_ sick and tired of hearing that old expression. But it didn’t matter; the Devastators’ lascannons fired again, and Laura risked peeking out from behind her cover. Three massive holes were opened up in the hull, causing secondary explosions. The ramp to the Land Raider fell, and an entire team of traitors left the dead engine of war.

The Claws roared and charged, breaking from their cover, and the heretics laughed and fought them. Laura ran from the cover of the pillar, but a hand caught her.

“We are needed back here,” Uncle Kemuel said.

“But the fight—“

“We need to repel any other squads of heretics that might threaten us,” he said, holding her back. “You should know that we cannot get bogged down. Now, to me.”

Dammit, he was right. But the Claws were getting in over their heads. There were only six Claws remaining, and one of them was in the red sleep at their make-shift trap. What happened to three of them? Were they already dying?

Suddenly Laura was tired. What was with her? This was the middle of a warzone; she couldn’t nod off. Laura shook her head, trying to get in the right frame of mind. Behind her, she heard the sounds of power weapons discharging. How were the Claws doing?

“Stand tall, Claws, help is coming,” she heard Uncle Helfist say. She felt him pulling raw power from Fenris, or the warp, or from wherever it came from. He was helping; they would be safe. Motion caught her eye, far down the road.

“Contact,” she called. “Down the road.”

“I see nothing,” Uncle Kemuel said.

“Come on, it’s down there,” she said, pointing.

“That? That dot, right there?”

“Yes, that one. It’s a Predator. They must have heard a cry for help.”

“If that is a Predator, we need to withdraw,” Kemuel said. “Custodes, to battle. We must end this.”

Laura was already moving. For some reason, it took Uncle Kemuel and his brothers a nail biting half-second to react. He wasn’t always so slow; what happened?

The Claws were in trouble, even with Uncle Helfist and his blessing. Wight was taking mortal blows that would have threatened his thread, were it not for the blessing of endurance. A sword cut his throat, but the flesh quickly pulled itself together.

She needed to help him. What was Wight thinking, taking on three traitors at once? Then she saw another fallen Claw. He was standing over him, protecting the neophyte.

“Hey, you fucking turn-cloaks, try keeping up with this!” She yelled, mentally drawing power from the warp to charge her sword. Electricity sparked and arced off the blade, and she launched herself into the melee.

Now that she was fighting a war, she was so glad that Aunt Geist made her train hard for all those years. She had to move fast if she wanted to keep her momentum strong, and if there was one thing that Aunt Geist made her do, it was to think and act fast.

Uncle Helfist drove a traitor back with a pulled punch, and she darted in to lop off his leg. He fell, and before he could hit the ground, she cut off the top of his head. Then it was on to the next enemy, the one fighting Wight. With his focus on the Grey Hunter, she was able to run him through. Finally, Uncle Kemuel and the Custodes were in the fray, and the fight was as good as over.

“Damn heretics nearly took another one of us,” Uncle Helfist growled.

He was holding onto a Claw, who’s arm was all but cut off. Laura’s stomach threatened to heave; it was barely holding on by sinew. The Claw in question was doing a fine job biting his tongue.

“We need to get back to our base,” Uncle Kemuel said.

“And do what? Wait there to be boxed in?” a Claw demanded. Wight cuffed his head.

“He’s right,” Laura said. “We have to keep moving. If the heretics are able to box us in, we’re as good as dead.”

“Get…get me to the base,” the nearly armless Claw stammered. “I’ll hold them off; you get away.”

“You heard the man, let’s get moving,” Helfist said. “Listen, it’ll hurt a lot less…”

The Claw nodded, and Helfist drew a paring knife. Laura turned away, just as he drew the blade across the remaining skin and sinew that attached his arm. The Claw did his best not to scream.

“We need to take the back roads,” Uncle Kemuel said. “Avoiding detection is our highest priority.”

“Lead on, we’ll bring up the rear,” Vermund said, tying a tourniquet. “Come on, let’s move.”

They carefully picked their way through the streets, somehow avoiding the traitors. They climbed the stairs to their little keep.

“How is he?” Uncle Helfist asked, pointing at the Claw they left.

“Still in the Red Sleep,” Laura said, placing a finger against his neck.

“He picked a fucking great time to sleep this off. Alright Claws, get as much ammo as you can carry, then carry more.”

“We need to get back into friendly territory,” a Custode said. “We can do more from there, rather than run around, trying to attack convoys.”

“We can’t run back,” Laura said, a feeling tugging at her. She knew this strategy, and she had to talk. “We have anti-air batteries, but that just means the traitors have to hoof it. Yea, they burn fuel to avoid any fights, but it’s a small price to pay for getting to the front unmolested.”

“Laura’s right,” Uncle Helfist said. “We have to stay out here. Any ammo, armor or heretic that doesn’t get to the front doesn’t get to kill our sisters or brothers.”

The building exploded, shaking the ruins. Laura was able to catch her balance, and went to a window. Two Predators and a Land Raider were outside their ruined building.

“How the Hel did they find us?”

“It does not matter. Save your bolts, they would not hurt the tanks,” Uncle Kemuel ordered.

“And what, sit back and take it like a bastard?”

The traitor’s cannons fired, rocking the building. Laura was thrown against a wall. Uncle Kemuel helped her to her feet.

“Claws, get ready to move out,” Helfist said.

“Let me stay.” Laura looked at the Claw who had spoken. It was the one who had lost the arm. “I’ll take ‘em all down.”

She ran to the window and began taking shots at the traitors, just to catch their attention. The rest of the Claws came to, and helped her pepper the tanks with bolt fire. Two traitor crew men were standing in the wrong place, and were cut down.

“That’s good enough,” Uncle Helfist said, ducking for cover. The Land Raider was beginning to fire, and the ruin was suddenly shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Save a spot for us in Valhalla, brother. Move.”

Laura gave a lingering look at the wounded Claw. He lay next to the Claw taken by the Red Sleep; he was firing his bolter in the air, just to draw attention.

“We stay here, we spit on his sacrifice,” Uncle Helfist snapped. “Come on!”

Laura fell into place with the marines. She was so worried about the Claws that were left behind that she didn’t notice that she had ran towards the front of the line, outpacing most of the Claws.

 

* * *

 

The loyalists were close; they could hear the bolter firing endlessly, with pauses showing that they didn’t know how to reload a bolt gun.

“This shall be easy,” the aspiring champion laughed. He kicked the door open to the top floor, but all they could see were two loyalists lying on the ground; one was comatose, the second was firing a bolter in the air with one arm.

“Is this truly the best that the Corpse Emperor could muster for us?” He laughed. “Two useless marines?”

“Two?” The loyalist said, laughing right back at him. “You might see two, but I cee-four.”

“Four? The fucking loyalists can’t even count right,” the aspiring champion howled. “Get your blades out, we shall make a sacrifice.”

But the loyalist kept laughing. He had cast aside his bolter, and was still laughing. Then the aspiring champion noticed ordinance munitions lying around the room. Artillery shells were stacked three high and four across; enough to put a dent in the world.

And then he noticed that wires were drilled into them, and all of the wires were heading towards a detonator in the loyalist’s hand.

“When you get to Hel, tell ‘em that Valgard Coldhands sent you,” he spat. “ _Ojor va Russ. Fenrys_ _hjolda_.”

 

* * *

 

The explosion could be heard from miles away. At least, that’s what it felt like to Laura. A few of the Claws seemed to agree with her, and began cursing.

“Keep moving,” Uncle Helfist said. “We’re in a small enough group to get the Custodes to join us. Come on.”

She never doubted her uncle. She was taught to never doubt his abilities and skills. But for some reason, she couldn’t see an end to this fight that ended well.

“Do you…do you think this is for the best?” Laura quietly asked.

“We can’t go around, bitching that we didn’t get the right cards for the hand,” Uncle Helfist said. “But we can choose with how we play them. We keep the fucking bitching to ourselves, and we move forward. Keep killing until we can’t.’”

“And then what?”

“And then we see what our wyrd has in store for us.”

 

* * *

 

The Mechanicus’ robots were strong, durable, and heavily armed. They were led by tech priests who knew much in the way of fighting. They poured out nearly unending streams of fire, each shot accurate and deadly.

The Sisters of Battle were heavily entrenched, each position secured, each trench line providing excellent cover and overlapping fields of fire. And they were endlessly angry; each breath they drew was to fuel their desire to kill their enemies, and they carried out their duty with fanatical devotion.

The near endless Tarantula turrets were wisely placed, and were only silenced after expending their great stores of munitions. Their fields of fire covered miles of barbed wire, trenches, breastworks and tank traps that littered the road.

Whirlwind tanks launched volley after volley downwind, targeting those that were either unhurt by the Mechanicus, Sisters or turrets. Marines were thrown like rag dolls as the artillery rounds landed with deadly precision.

But despite all that, the Black Legion marched on.

Onairam smiled. Yes, they were marching on. Marching on despite the fierce resistance their loyalist brothers and sisters were mounting. Marching on for they were a full legion strong, against a mere monastery of Sisters, a token marine force, and a few dozen squads of Mechanicus robots.

Yes, they were marching, and nothing could stop them. Everything the loyalists were doing was a delaying tactic. They were powered by the hopes and dreams that their message, their plea for help, but the Legion had the blessings of the Gods.

“Is this the assault you were wanting?” Onairam asked.

“It is not the assault that I wanted, but with the death of the previous Lord Ravenger, it shall do,” Abaddon replied.

“We are making great advances,” Onairam said. “I believe the assault is going quite well, considering that it fell apart following the death of the previous Lord Ravenger.”

“When I ask for you to brag, I shall ask for it,” the Despoiler said. “And when I ask for you to brag, we will be lording over the Corpse Emperor; not a day before.”

“Lord Ravenger.” A fallen marine was approaching them. “News from the front. Another Predator had blown their treads. Warpsmiths are doing their best to repair it, but with the fire of the loyalists, it is slow to repair.”

“Are the warpsmiths working?”

“Y-yes, they are.”

“Then let them work. Grant them all they need, and give them all the cover they want.”

“Yes, Lord Ravenger.”

The marine stayed still, standing at the spot.

“If you mean to make me ask you for the reason you are still here, I shall put you onto minesweeping duty,” Onairam snapped.

“W-we also have news from the rear,” the marine said. “Convoys are being hit, munitions and fuel stores destroyed.”

Onairam turned on the soldier. They were already running through their allotted fuel, ammo and armor at a much greater rate than expected; to have even _more_ precious supplies be threatened was beyond intolerable. Onairam knew how much work went into securing those resources, and he knew what would happen when they ran out.

“Why is this the first I am hearing of this?” he demanded.

“The local champions were searching for the group responsible themselves,” the marine stammered. “It is a squad of dogs, dogs from Fenris. But the aspiring champions…They wanted the glory of killing the Custodes that are with them.”

The marine handed over a rough-print of the pict. Onairam snatched it away. On the grainy frame were five massive, black armored loyalists, each holding a spear. Next to them was a wild dog, with red hair and a bolt pistol in his hand, tribal tattoos radiating from his eye. Next to the black armored loyalists, the red-headed one seemed small; human size, even.

“Well, damn my soul,” he said, handing the pict to Abaddon. “Those might just actually be Custodes.”

“They are destroying supply chains, wherever possible,” the marine said. “But we are bleeding them. We know that we have killed at least two of their damned dog pack already.”

“Lord Ravenger, I shall leave the advance of the front to you,” Abaddon said. “I shall gather my own men to find these mad dogs.”

“Despoiler, such a task in beneath you,” Onairam said. “Why waste time when we get closer to breeching the doors of the capitol’s monastery?”

“Because of the thing that is with the Custodes,” the Despoiler said.

Onairam looked back at the pict. Hidden between the Custodes and the red-headed dog was a human. Blurs of motion obscured it even more, but the long hair leaking from the helmet suggested that it was a woman.

“The slaves of the False Emperor have created a thing that the Gods want.”

“And so the gods shall have it. Hunt well.”

“Fight better,” Abaddon said, “for I will most likely kill you in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

A long peel of bolter fire echoed down the street.

“Damn, that sounds like it was close.”

Kruko peeked out from his cover. Further down the road, a squad of traitors were running towards the sounds of the fight.

“Yea, this _is_ close,” he said. “I didn’t know that there were still people fighting out here.”

“Does it matter?” Brenia snapped. “We need to kill those fucking traitors.”

Kruko may have only known the Sister of Battle for the two weeks of the siege, but he had never seen her relax. It was like her default emotion was anger.

“We _will_ kill them, but we’ll do it our way,” Cela, the second Sister, said. “We need to fight smart, not blindly.”

“We need to join our Sisters,” Brenia snarled, her scarred, tattooed face twisting as she spat the words out. She was lecturing both Kruko and Cela, as if they asked why the sky was blue.

“We need to save whoever is still fighting out there,” Kruko said. “They won’t last long; traitors are coming out of the woodwork to kill them. Come on, let’s go.”

“And how the fuck will we get there?” Brenia demanded.

“The same way we saved you: by taking the tunnels.”

“Are all PDF like this? Always taking the easy, cowardly way?”

“Sister, please,” Cela said. “That ‘easy, cowardly’ man saved our lives that way. We must repay him for his kindness.”

What a goddess, keeping that raging harpy at bay. The two Sisters followed him through the rubble of the building, down to the basement. The men and women of the PDF were waiting for them, wary of any traitor forces.

“There are some brave people fighting a couple blocks down the street,” Kruko said. “We’re gonna save them. Get in the tunnels.”

“You mean shit drains.”

“Brenia…” Cela was a gentle soul, but there was a lingering threat to her husky voice.

With a grunt and many curses, the PDF troops dragged the huge concrete slab off the aquifer drain, and they jumped in. Kruko was glad for the string of lights that hung from the top of the concrete drains. With a grunt, everyone moved the cover back in place. Without the lights, it would have been utterly dark.

“Weapons hot and ready,” Kruko said, checking his lasgun. “Never know when we might run into a traitor.”

They lightly jogged down the drain, the hastily-hung lights swaying with every rumble on the surface. Eventually, the sound of the fighting began picking up.

“Must be close,” Kruko said. “Get in position. Cela, Brenia, with me. We’re popping out, taking a few shots, and getting those poor souls back into the tunnel. Then we beat it back to the firebase.”

“The Emperor blesses those who protect their kin,” Cela said, uttering a quick prayer. “We are strong; we are ready.”

The PDF troopers grunted as they pushed another heavy slab of concrete off the storm drain, and the sound of battle amplified. Kruko jumped up, grabbed a railing, and pulled himself up. The two Sisters, in their power armor, easily hoisted themselves up, and they were soon in the shelled-out basement of yet another building. A deep yell came from the sound of battle. Soon the sounds of bolts was replaced with the sound of swords clashing.

“What the shit was that?” Brenia said. “Was that a language, or some kinda grunting?”

They ran through the rubble of the basement, until they came to a ruined wall. Peering around the corner, Kruko was shocked to see a squad of Space Marines.

“Angels of Death,” he said. “Loyalists, too!”

“Emperor’s petrified shit, those are Custodes!” Brenia gasped.

Fighting next to the marines were five massive giants wearing all-black armor. Kruko recognized them as the Custodes who were guarding the monastery, the ones who were supposed to be watching over the Blasphemer, lest he turn from the Emperor’s Light.

The marines and Custodes struck the last traitor down. Many of the marines seemed wounded, with deep gouges in their armor, and blood dripping from wounds. They were the Space Wolves that accompanied the Blasphemer.

“Space Marines! Custodes! Here!” Kruko yelled, waving at them.

They said something in their guttural tongue, but quickly switched to Gothic.

“Who are you?” A marine with deep red hair asked. Blood caked his right fist.

“Trooper Kruko, Dimimmar PDF,” he replied. “We need to get out of here; more traitors are coming.”

“What, to hide in a basement?”

“We have a tunnel down here that leads to other parts of the city,” he said. “Come, we need to pull out.”

“Tunnels? Tunnels where?” Walking from behind the marine, a sword-wielding woman stepped out. She wore a full head-covering helmet, with only her voice and trailing hair giving her away as a woman. Her armor seemed…different than regular PDF armor. Fancier, but not by much.

“Does it fucking matter?” A Custode said. “Tunnels mean that we have a way to keep mobile.”

“You heard the man,” the red-haired marine said. “Move to the tunnels, and we can keep this party going!”

The marines and Custodes ran towards Kruko, but he was surprised to see the woman beat them to the basement. Now that she was closer to him, he could see that she was tall; far taller than him. But she wasn’t oddly proportioned, with longer legs or a shorter torso; she was simply tall. She might be as tall as the marines.

“You have Sisters, too?” The woman asked, seeing Cela and Brenia.

“We are of the Ebon Chalice,” Cela said.

“The Ebon Chalice? I thought they all died.”

“We gonna stand here and gossip?” Brenia snapped. “Talk about boys and braid our hair? Or are we gonna move from here and kill some fucking heretics?”

“I like her,” one Space Wolf laughed.

Kruko jumped into the drain, and was going to offer the woman a hand, but she nimbly jumped in after him; cats landed with less grace than her. But the marines and Custodes, with their heavy armor, landed like a ton of bricks.

“By the Emperor,” the PDF troopers gasped. Many knelt. “Space Marines and Custodes.”

“There’s no time for bowing and cowing,” Brenia snapped. “Close the fucking tunnel.”

The troopers climbed their ladders and began pulling the heavy slab of concrete back into place. Seeing them struggle, the marines and Custodes went to help them. Soon the tunnel was covered, and the only lights came from the few unbroken bulbs that were strung along the top of the tunnel.

“We have a firebase this way,” Kruko said. “Come on, let’s move.”

He, Cela and Brenia led the way down the tunnel, with the marines and Custodes following and the PDF troopers bringing up the rear. The marines began talking in their native tongue. Kruko was surprised to hear the strange woman talking in the same language. A few of the marines laughed at whatever she said.

The tunnel curved, and Kruko slowed down, waving for the party to stop. They were coming to a junction that led to the firebase.

“We are servants of the Emperor,” he called out. “Hold your fire.”

He carefully rounded the corner of the junction, hands in the air, and saw the men and women of the PDF manning three large heavy bolter turrets.

“Corporal Kruko, Dimmimar PDF,” he called. “We have found surviving Space Marines.”

“Angels of Death?”

“Aye, that’d be us,” the red-haired marine said, walking around the corner. “You part of the PDF, too?”

“Space Marines! Thank the Emperor!”

“Stand down, friendlies are confirmed,” another PDF man said. “Kruko, come on back. My lords, welcome.”

“Good to see that the PDF survived,” the red-haired marine said. “Come on pups, looks like we found a safe haven.”

“This presents an interesting tactical dilemma,” a Custode said. Upon seeing the Custode, the PDF troopers gasped and knelt. “Rise, valiant defenders. You are doing good work; we are all equals here.”

“Let’s get up to the base, the Commissar would like to see you,” Kruko said.

“We’ll go talk with him,” the red-headed Wolf said. “Wight, keep the Claws here. Make sure nothing followed us.”

The helmed Marine, answering to the name ‘Wight,’ grunted. He began silently pointing to positions for the marines to take.

Kruko led them through the tunnels into their base, the heavy, armored footfalls of the Marines and Custodes drawing attention. Everywhere they walked, PDF troopers were gasping and kneeling. They came to the massive stairwell that brought them to the lower levels of the firebase. The strange dark-haired woman peered over the railing, looking down into the massive, water-filled hole.

“What is this place?” She asked.

“One of the city’s aquifers,” Kruko said. “Here, water is purified and sent out to several city blocks.”

“So the tunnel we were walking down, was that part of the aquifer?”

“That’s exactly it. Once the heretics made landfall, we drained them all, and used it as a way to move around.”

“Also keeps you close to water,” the red-haired marine said. “Not a bad place to hole up.”

“Dangerous to be caught in, too,” a Custode said.

“Don’t mind him, Custodes got a thing for protecting areas. I’m just wondering why we never heard from you in the monastery.”

“The main monastery? It’s too big for the city to support; that has its own aquifer.”

“Think we can knock some walls down, connect the two and be able to move around the city?”

“I think we can do something about that.”

They all came to the second level, which used to house the workers of the aquifer. Since the Black Legion landed, they had thrown nearly every non-essential thing out, and moved most of the PDF command barracks to the massive underground room.

“Commissar, Corporal Kruko reporting,” Kruko said. “We’ve found a squad of Space Marines and Custodes.”

The Commissar was reading reports, mostly of enemy movement, but dropped everything once he heard Kruko. He would strike an imposing figure if he wasn’t covered head-to-toe in dust.

“By the Throne,” the Commissar gasped. “We are saved.”

“I wouldn’t go saying that,” the red-haired Marine said. “There’re still a fuck-ton of traitors out there.”

“It is an honor to meet you. I’m Commissar Sican, Dimmimar PDF.”

“Vermund Helfist,” the red-headed Marine said. “Rune Priest of the Vlka Fenryka.”

“You may call me Kemuel, of the Adeptus Custodes,” the lead Custode said, bowing politely. “It is good to see that the citizens of the Imperium are coming together to defeat the minions of darkness.”

“It is all that we can do, Custode,” Sican said. “Have you met a woman in the PDF during your battle?”

“What? Oh, you mean me?” The tall woman said, stepping out from behind the Wolf. “No, I _was_ going to join the PDF, but then the traitors invaded.”

“And you are…?”

“Laura.”

“You wear exceptional armor, Trooper.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. My…uncle made it for me.”

“If we live through this, I might have to visit your uncle,” Kruko said.

“My thanks for bringing the Emperor’s Angels of Death to me, Corporal,” Sican said. “You are dismissed. Return to your duties and take the new recruit with you. See where we can put her to use.”

“No disrespect, Commissar, but we’d like it if Laura could stay with us,” Helfist said.

“A simple PDF trooper? Why?”

“She’s good at keeping the malefactorum out.”

“I see.” It was obvious that Sican didn’t understand what Helfist meant; Kruko didn’t understand it himself. Laura’s shoulders seemed to drop, as if being asked to fight with Space Marines was a burden! “If it is your wish, we can only obey.”

“Great. Laura, go with Kruko and the Sisters, see what kind of ammo we can gather up. If the Commissar doesn’t mind us taking some bolts from him, that is.”

“What is ours is yours.”

“Good. Get a move on.”

Laura nodded, and walked over to Kruko.

“Come on, let’s leave the Commissar before he changes his mind,” he said.

“Maybe we can find a shower, too,” Laura said, pulling off her helmet. “I’m fucking _covered_ with dust and sweat.”

Kruko was so taken staring at Laura that he nearly walked into the massive water reservoir. Despite being grimy and dirt-covered, her crème mocha skin looked flawless, and her hair was the perfect deep black. She was without blemish, utterly perfect, the perfect image of what humanity could be.

“A shower does sound heavenly,” Cela said dreamily. “To get out of this armor, even for a minute…”

“We’ll do that after we get bolts in our guns,” Brenia said. “You can never have too many bolts.”

“Especially now,” Laura said. She pulled out a meal ration and began tearing into it. “Your said you’re with the Ebon Chalice? I thought they had all died.”

“We nearly did, too,” Cela said. “Our drop pod malfunctioned; it landed us a few miles from the front. We fought our way into the city to do what we could, but by then, the traitors were responding with force.”

“They whittled us down,” Brenia spat. “A sister here, a sister there, those fucking bastards made us bleed. Thankfully, Kruko here found us.”

By the Emperor, it was like Laura’s eyes had gold dust in them.

“It was faith and good fortune,” Cela said. “Brenia and I were all that was left of our squad when Kruko and the PDF found us. To repay him for our survival, we are helping him throw the traitors off the planet. We might be the last Sisters of the Ebon Chalice left on the planet.”

“But we’ll make the traitors pay for missing us,” Brenia promised.

“We’ll gladly help you out,” Laura said, finishing the ration bar. Now Kruko wasn’t the only one staring at her; Brenia was also staring. “What?”

“Did you eat that whole ration bar?” Kruko asked.

Laura looked down, as if she was seeing the empty wrapper for the first time.

“I got hungry,” she said lamely.

“Hungry my ass,” Brenia said. “Those ration bars are supposed to feed a man for a week.”

“I guess fighting a traitor legion really makes me real hungry.”

 

* * *

 

The map showed the position of the Black Legion’s forces. It shouldn’t have surprised Helfist to see that they were surrounded, but to see them surrounded in such totality…

“Looks like they can’t get away from us,” he chuckled.

“Are these reports current?” Kemuel asked.

“We have other resistance cells in the city, each occupying different aquifers that feed different sectors,” Commissar Sican replied. “We only have short-range vox casters; we update our maps when we can. Many long-range casters were lost when we had to abandon our defenses and move underground.”

“We got good vox casters in our armor, we can ask old man Ironclaws what the deal is,” Helfist said. He looked up from the table to see where Laura was going. He blinked; she was easily a head taller than that Kruko fellow. He didn’t remember her being so tall.

Now that he had time to stop and think, to _truly_ think without having a traitor blow his head off, he didn’t have to look down on her anymore. Sometime in the past two weeks, she grew; she was as tall as he was.

“Thank the Emperor,” Sican said. “May I ask that you contact the Sister’s monastery as soon as possible? We need to know when the counter-attack can be expected.”

“I’ll tell you right now, there ain’t no counter-attack,” he said. “The damn Black Legion caught us with our pants around our ankles. Best we can do is hold out until the Calvary comes running.”

“Is…that can’t be right,” the Commissar said.

“Sadly, it is,” Kemuel said. “But we have sent plenty of requests via deep-space communication channels, and have dispatched a very fast Rogue Trader to help carry word.”

“Let’s hope that’s all we need,” Helfist said. He unclipped his helmet from his waist. “I’m gonna give old man Ironclaws a call, see what’s going on.”

He slipped his helmet on and walked from the table. The helm blinked as it recognized him, and he blink-clicked to open a vox channel.

 _Helfist, still bringing ruin to the traitors?_ Aevar asked.

 _You know it,_ he replied. _Turns out some PDF troops didn’t get their threads cut when the Legion made landfall. They’re in one of the city’s aquifers, and they’ve got tunnels that pass out through the city. We’re with a group of them now, licking our wounds before we go back to the front._

_How badly are we hurt?_

_We lost eight,_ Helfist said bitterly. _They weren’t easy kills, but there are so damned many traitors. Good thing is, our armor is doing fine. Dented and bruised, yea, but it’s still good._

_That’s fucking great. Can’t exactly make house calls, you know._

_Ha! If only! Can you get that old bat on the vox? The local Commissar wants to talk strategy with her. And do you know if anything strange is happening with Laura?_

_Strange? Strange how?_ Aevar asked.

 _I just noticed it right now, but it looks like she’s growing,_ Helfist said. _She’s got a full head over most PDF men right now; she’s probably as tall as a Vlka. And she’s gotten really fast. I thought Custodes could move, but she’s getting even faster than them._

_That’s fucking weird, but I ain’t a genetor. I’ll see what Legato thinks._

_And if it is some kind of sickness, could you find a way for me to get it? I want to beat Kemuel to the fucking punch once in a while._

* * *

 

Aevar shut the vox off and put his hammer down; the forge was none the quieter as the forge-bound servitors and tech priests continued to pointlessly wail away at their empty anvils. He made his way through the crowded room, finding Legato.

“I just got word from Helfist,” he said.

“Word about what?” Legato asked.

“It’s about Laura.”

Legato’s face simultaneously hardened and paled.

“Is it…is it happening?” He asked.

“Aye, it is,” Aevar said. “Her meds wore off, and she’s changing.”

 

* * *

 

 

Laura always felt better when she cleaned up, but this shower was just too damn small to get washed up in. She had to stoop to get her head under the water, and twist to avoid bumping against the thin, too small pre-fabbed walls of the stall.

Hissing with annoyance, she had to work the cheap, tiny bar soap into a lather, just to finish up her wash. The vial of shampoo was more of a sample; it wasn’t enough to cover her half her scalp. Her hair would have to go without a proper washing.

Giving up on her wash, Laura killed the water and grabbed the towel. Even _that_ was small. She could barely wrap it around her chest and have it meet the top of her thighs. Groaning with annoyance, she went to drying herself as best she could, and walked to her locker with it covering up as much as it could. It’s not like the other women in the locker room haven’t seen a woman nearly naked before.

“Emperor, we wash this damned dust off, and it just gets back on us,” one of the dressing women tensely laughed.

“I know. And it gets _everywhere,_ too.”

The locker room echoed with a few people talking; each tensely, each in their own way trying to forget that the Arch-Enemy was there, and with them, their inevitable deaths. Laura could feel their fear, their burning desire to live.

Seeing her, many of the women turned away. She was the stranger here, the giant stranger who fought with the Space Marines. She was used to be treated differently, but it still cut her. She just wanted to be another woman, not some special princess.

Laura couldn’t understand why the PDF seemed to hire only tiny men and women. Were the best women able to join the Sisters of Battle, or the Guard? Did the PDF have to deal with the dregs? Since she arrived at the underground base, she hadn’t met anyone who was her height. And they were so thin, too. Laura never considered herself extraordinarily strong, but compared to the women of the PDF, she seemed to be bursting with strength, with the absolute minimum of fat covering her. It was like she was chiseled from marble, while the others were slapped together out of second hand clay.

Pushing the feeling aside, she opened her locker and pulled out her equipment. Her new cloths, assigned by the PDF, were roughly washed, but must have shrunk; they were far too small for her. Groaning with annoyance, she switched back to her old, dirty cloths; she couldn’t exactly walk around the base naked.

Fortunately, each piece of her armor was easy to slide on, from the grieves to the breastplate. It all fit her perfectly. Uncle Croan did a masterful job making it.

Seeing her reflection in a tiny mirror, she stopped and double-checked her armor. She was wearing it correctly, but that couldn’t be right. When she first got the armor from her uncle, it barely fit her; it was far too big. But somehow, now it was the right size.

This _couldn’t_ be right. She drew her sword from the locker. There was yet another thing that made her a stranger; the best sword that anyone in the PDF carried was a basic, third-hand chainsword, not a master-crafted blade. She was just glad no one could recognize it as a force sword. She checked the scabbard, setting it point-down on the floor; it came up just at her hip. The last time she measured it, it came up to her armpits. That meant that she easily grew a foot.

A foot. In less than a month. _Easily._

Maybe _that_ would explain all the ration bars she was eating.

Leaving the locker room, she made her way to the mess hall. Speakers were playing music; grand, sweeping orchestral pieces that normally played at parades or at the monthly planet-wide masses. Hearing the familiar tunes made her feel a little better. She went to the line to get some food; again, people stared at her as she grabbed a tray. Laura walked from station to station, getting a dollop of food from the servitors.

“Probably need more than that, huh?” The man next to her chuckled, looking her over.

“I’ll make due,” she said. Then she grinned. “Besides, you probably need it more than I do. Looks like a strong wind might knock you over.”

Another man, probably the first one’s friend, chuckled at that. But the man didn’t find it very funny.

“Fuck off, you giant freak,” he spat, leaving the line.

Laura sighed. She was so good at making friends. It had to be the Despoiler attacking; she told herself that things would be different when she joined the PDF.

With her tray full, she looked for a place to sit. Reading the faces of the people already sitting, she could already tell that she wouldn’t find any place at the tables. They gave her the same looks she knew all too well from the Sister’s monastery: there wasn’t any space for her. So she fell back into old habits, and went for one that was empty.

“Need a little company?”

She looked up from her nutritious slop. It was Kruko.

“Sure you want to?” She asked. “Looks like everyone here decided to make me the pariah.”

“Hard to blame them. You’re new here,” he said, sitting down. “Oh look, it’s the valiant Sisters.”

Laura looked up as he began waving. Sure enough, Brenia and Cela were getting their meal. The two armored Sisters stood out against the regular PDF troops; despite that, many moved to make room for them at their bench. They weren’t being shunned as she was.

“Hey Cela, plenty of room here,” Kruko waved.

Brenia seemed less inclined to join them, but Cela nudged her towards them.

“Greetings,” Cela smiled, taking a seat. Brenia glowered.

“Pretty good slop, huh?” Laura smiled.

“Yea, good slop. That makes this _so_ much better,” Brenia said. The scarred Sister sat, letting gravity drag her armor down, making everything on the table bounce, and the wooden bench to creek.

“Sorry,” she said mouthed, clearly not meaning it.

“Has to be better than the regular stuff they give us at the PDF,” Kruko said. “Right, Laura?”

Laura sighed. She wanted to join the PDF, but if they knew she was a raw recruit, it would make it all the worse. A raw recruit who fought with Space Marines and Custodes.

Then again, if she lied, it would be all the worse.

“Actually, I haven’t been in the PDF yet,” she said. “I was going to sign up when the Black Legion came knocking.”

“And why didn’t you join up then?” Brenia demanded.

“I…got press-ganged into fighting.”

“Press-ganged? With a bunch of Space Marines? And what makes you so damn special that you get their attention?” Brenia demanded. “Getting that armor and those weapons?”

“Please forgive my sister’s crassness, but she is right,” Cela said. “It’s awfully curious that the Emperor’s Chosen, and His holy bodyguards, would ask you to join them.”

Laura’s stomach flipped, but not because of the difficult question. She promised herself that things would be different; no one had to know her history, her uncles, her specialness. Otherwise, it would be like school all over again.

“You’ll have to ask them,” she said. “If they say jump, we’re supposed to say ‘how high,’ right?”

“Their judgments are infallible,” Cela agreed. “Still, perhaps this is simply a great blessing. To have armaments to protect your life, and the weapons to bring ruin to those heretics is a great boon.”

“You sure are lucky,” Kruko smiled. “So what’s the plan? Anyone hear what’s going on, now that we found some Space Marines?”

“Why not ask their little pet?” Brenia said, pointing to Laura with her spork.

“Hey, they don’t tell me anything,” she replied. What was wrong with this bitch? “I told you, they say jump—“

“Bullshit, you gotta know something.”

“Sister, please,” Cela said. Oh, she was a dark skinned goddess. “If she does not know, then she does not.”

“Bitch could be lying.” Laura bristled at that.

“And why would she be lying? What does she benefit from it?”

Brenia glared at Laura, and Laura returned it in kind. No, she couldn’t do that; that would be like she was back at school, with her fighting everyone, giving them more reasons to hate her. Things had to be different.

“Sorry, I really don’t know,” she said, relenting. “If I did, I would’ve said something by now.”

Brenia snorted and went back to her food.

“So, where you from?” Kruko asked, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Around the capitol,” Laura said. “Spent a lot of time growing up in the north-east side.”

“No shit! My dad worked in a small temple over there, sweeping up and preparing masses. The Temple of Eternal Martyrs.”

“I love that temple,” Laura smiled, only partially lying. She liked the look of the temple, but any sort of prayer made her stomach heave. “It’s really pretty.”

“Is Father Gene sill there?”

“Uh, I actually don’t know,” she said weakly. “I’ve only been in a few times, but I’ve walked by it almost every day.”

“Then where did you worship?”

She should just lie. But at the same time, Laura knew everyone would know instantly if she did.

“I worshipped with the Sisters,” she said. “At the Monastery of the Valorous Heart.”

“ _That_ explains it,” Brenia said.

“I’m sorry, is there something you don’t like about me?” Launa snapped.

“There’s _plenty_ I don’t like about you,” the Sister replied, rising to the challenge. “You think you’re a fucking special pretty giant princess. Got it written all over you. That armor, those weapons, you’re related to someone special, someone who has enough power to order those damn marines around.”

“Brenia, please,” Kruko said, “can we just—“

Cela gently put her hand on his shoulder, just as Brenia cut him off.

“And why the fuck are you here, thinking you can slum it with us?” She spat. “The PDF isn’t where special pretty giant princesses go. You think you got something in common with us? You don’t. You went to a special school, with special teachers, getting special shit, and you think you have something in _common_ with us?”

“Look who’s the fucking hypocrite,” Laura said. “Didn’t you join the Sisters of Battle the same way? By going to their monastery?”

“Like shit I did,” Brenia said. “You think a Shrine World can be tough? Try growing up in the slums of a Hive World, where everyone wants you dead or worse. I was running gangs before I could count.”

“You can count?” Laura spat. “Guess there’s still wonder left in the universe.”

“Ha-fucking-ha, princess. I ain’t smart, and I know it. But at least I know what I am.”

“Do they let anyone as radiant as you join the Sisters?”

“They wanted me in ‘cus I’m as tough as shit, not ‘cus I’m pretty like you. Got press-ganged into an orphanage. Tried burning that place down three times. Thought that’d get me kicked out, but it only got me noticed. So they threw me into this armor, same as a lot of the other Sisters.

“What, did that surprise you? To know that most of the Sisters aren’t part of their fucking special schools? Cela, how many Sisters are from hive worlds and orphanages?”

“As coarse as my sister is, she is right,” Cela said. “Not all of us were products of the Sisters of Battle tutelage. Personally, I am; but many are not.”

“Damn right. So you think you can make us think that you’re one of us? You’re not. Everyone here knows it. Why the hell did you think no one wanted to sit around you and play make-up-friends, huh?” Brenia hissed. “Don’t try to be like us. You’ll never be.”

The Sister stood up, taking her tray of slop with her.

“I know forgiveness can be hard,” Cela said, “but please, try to understand that we have had a…very trying month on this planet.”

Laura glared at Brenia. She hated her. She _had_ to hate her, otherwise she would feel other things. It was just what her Uncle Aevar told her, all those years ago: hate, so you don’t fear. Hate, so you don’t cry. The twisting feeling in her gut could feel the sting of rejection; it knew it will.

The PDF was supposed to be different. But it looked like it would just me more of the same old shit. Shit she wanted desperately to get away from.

 

* * *

 

They were making progress. They were always making progress. With the loyalists stuck on the defensive, all the Black Legion had to do was to keep the pressure of the siege high, and the defenses could only fail.

But it wasn’t enough.

Onairam stood tall, his blood boiling. The loyalist marines were always just beyond reach, but that didn’t matter. Onairam could see him perched in the high ruins, standing there with his regal blue armor.

“Julas.”

Onairam _had_ to get to him. He had to _kill_ him. For all the suffering he had to endure when his armor was blue. For all the humiliation he took for being his superior, yet always held in a junior position. For Julas being away when he finally had enough and sacrificed his squad to show his faith to the Dark Gods. And for the promise of the dark gods whispered in his ears. To truly get his freedom, he had to do that one, little thing.

 _You are special: you are our Chosen. You have seen the chains that have bound you, and you have freed yourself from their clutches_.

He had to end his former brother. He had to show him the error of his ways. He had to prove that he was right, and that Julas was wrong. He had to prove that he was better.

“Call in the helldrakes,” Onairam ordered.

“But the loyalist anti-air fire is too heavy,” a Legionnaire said.

“Do it anyways! I am also ordering heavy bombardment on the anti-air locations.”

“But the loyalists will just move them into cover.”

“That,” Onairam hissed, grabbing the offending marine about the neck, “is the entire idea!”

He threw the useless man to the ground.

“To me! Once the bombardment begins and the helldrakes are here, we shall charge forward, and crush all who stand before us.”

His armor, no, his second-skin ached. He was desperate to fight, to kill, to be free and gain the power of the Gods. Onairam strode forward, just behind a Defiler, as its massive guns belched out fire and death.

“Yes, keep the damn loyalists down,” he hissed. “Keep them down!”

The Dark Gods must have heard his prayer, for the skies were filled with the shrieks of the surviving helldrakes. They raked the ground with their fire breath, detonating mines buried underground, melting the casings of the numerous autonomous turrets and smelted barbed wire to slag. The helldrakes were perforated with anti-air fire, but their purpose was served.

They had a tiny opening.

“Onward!” He yelled, running to press the opening. The cries for loyalist blood redoubled, and the ground seemed to pound. Now it was a battle. Now it was a slaughter.

Ahead of him, nestled on the ground floor of a ruined building, was a squad of Mechanicus battle servitors, each with the legs of a tank. A tech priest was with them, chattering away in Binary.

“You are mine,” Onairam yelled as he launched himself towards them. The servitors raked his body with fire in an attempt to kill him. But his new skin was tough, and the bullets harmlessly reflected off him. Laughing, Onairam crushed the nearest servitor with his power scourge. The massive weapon crackled with energy as it smashed the damned thing  nearly in two. The tech priest screamed pathetically before the scourge ended his life.

It should not have been possible to break through the defensive lines like this. It should not have been, but Onairam knew his faith had saved him. He held faith in the Dark Gods, and they have rewarded him with this one little slip up, this one little break; that tiny chink in the defender’s armor was all he needed.

With the servitors dead, the mines at least partially clear, and the ruins open in front of them, they could finally push further. So what if it cost them more helldrakes? He was Chosen; his word was law. His future was planned.

“Onward,” Onairam cried as his enslaved traitors rushed into the building. “The loyalists cannot stand against us!”

Onairam launched himself through the ruins, towards the next group of Sisters, taking all of their shots. He laughed as they harmlessly bounced off his warped form, and then he was on them. The Sisters fought valiantly, but he crushed them. Suddenly, the surviving Sisters were falling back.

“Come back, cowards,” he hissed, chasing them. He nearly caught one Sister in her retreat, but his head cracked back from a heavy bolt. The shot didn’t penetrate his new plasteel skull, but it was enough to draw his attention. On the top of a ruin was a loyalist Devestator squad. His hearts picked up speed, pushing the poisonous ichor he called blood through his system.

“You, take your squad and pursue the Sisters further,” he ordered his men. “You, your squad is with me. We are killing those loyalists Devastators.”

He ran through the ruin. There had to be stairs, he had to find them before they fled, he had to! There! Taking the stairs five at a time, Onairam rushed upwards, towards the first landing.

He expected to be fired upon, to see the searing barrel of a lascannon before all went black, but the first landing held no surprises.

He rushed to the second, this time expecting to see the heat-warped end of a melta before being cut in half. Again, he was disappointed.

At the third floor, he expected to see a grav cannon, but instead saw the full might of a Devastator squad, each barrel aimed at his dead center.

It was exactly what Onairam was expecting. With a roar, he launched himself sideways, hitting the opposite wall with enough force to shatter the concrete. But he was able to dodge the shots. The air behind him boiled, hitting two following traitors.

Onairam ignored the losses. If they were truly faithful, the Dark Gods would have saved them.

“Julas!” Onairam bellowed, drawing his scourge as he launched himself towards the loyalists.

Julas hesitated for the briefest of seconds. Onairam laid into his former brother all his might, but a loyalist from the Black Templars stepped between them to take the blow. The scourge whipped forward, raking the loyalist’s arm, slicing through plasteel.

The Templar growled in pain, but lashed back, disconnecting and throwing the lascannon at him. Onairam hit the massive weapon aside, but the Templar was able to draw a chainsword.

“Julas, I have come for you,” he hissed.

“You…you are dead to me, traitor,” the Ultramarine shouted back. Onairam could feel Julas’ power sword hitting him, but his thickened skin blocked the blade. Julas’ eyes had bags under them, making him look like a man haunted. It was as if his loyal brother hadn’t slept a wink in decades.

“Dead? No, I am not dead, I am more alive than I have ever been!”

The Templar was good, striking with rage and fury, but Onairam was better. He whipped his scourge towards the chainsword, and the whirling blades caught the scourge, at first jamming, then breaking the simple machine.

Weaponless, the Templar tried to jump back, but Onairam brought the scourge up, shredding his chest armor, his chest, and his organs beneath them.

“The Dark Ones want to free you from the chains that bind you, Julas. And I am their will manifested,” Onairam laughed, moving onto the Ultramarine. Behind him, he could hear the other traitors joining in the fight.

“You shall be disappointed, traitor,” Julas spat. He, too, disconnected his heavy weapon and held his power sword at the ready. The other Devestators followed their example, fighting back with power swords. Onairam cared not; he was solely focused on Julas. “The Emperor guides my sword and grants me strength.”

“The power of the Corpse Emperor?” Onairam laughed. “It is nothing.”

He lashed out at his former brother. Julas gracefully parried, and landed his own counter-attack. It bounced off his fell skin.

“See? The power of the Dark Gods strengthens me,” Onairam laughed. “Empowers me!”

“It is just like you to rely on another’s power,” Julas spat, blocking his attacks. “You were never able to best me in training; you always needed another’s help, never able to fend for yourself.”

Onairam saw red, and he screamed senselessly as he attacked. Julas must have been expecting it, for he sunk the tip of his sword deep into his shoulder.

“Always so ready to over commit,” he said. “Always too—“

Onairam knocked the blade from his flesh, and a small geyser of blood burst from his wound. It landed on Julas’ arm, and the sizzling poison began eating away at the plasteel. Julas panicked, shaking his arm, whipping the rest of the poison off.

“You see the favor I have?” Onairam laughed. “Always so quick to judge. Always so quick to peer down your nose at others. That is your downfall, Julas. I shall burn your body and stick your head on a spike for all to see. And the Dark Gods will reward me, just as they promised. The Carrion Lord gives us silence, but the Dark Gods give us freedom, they give us power!”

“There is no reward in groveling,” Julas yelled as he desperately tried to push Onairam back.

“Groveling? What do you think you are doing? What do you think your life is to the Corpse Emperor, to the damned Imperium?

“What you call service, what you call ‘being called to his side,’ you are not called to anything; you are a slave!” He whipped the scourge back around, his rage pushed Julas back. “You have given yourself to brutes. You have given yourself to men who despise you, who regimented your life. Men who tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel!

 “We were trained until we collapsed, drilled until we cried, pushed until we lost our humanity, fought until our bones broke! And for what? To be used as cattle, to be simple cannon fodder! We marched to their tune, only to bury our brothers, to bleed until we went white and unconscious, exhausted until we could not see straight, and for what? Damned silence!”

“We are heroes!”

“We were _disposable!_ Simple numbers for the fucking cog-heads to throw at a problem. Just meat meant for the grinder! Do you remember the names of the brothers we buried together? Do you even remember Tullus, Potitus, Appius or Caius? I do. They died for nothing, for men who never cared for them.”

“Oh, I remember them,” Julas said. “Tullus, Potitus, I remember them all. I see them whenever I close my eyes, I see them in a field of death and corpses.”

Onairam paused. A field of death, of corpses? That was what he dreamed.

“An _endless_ field of death?” He pressed.

“Where dead bodies fall from the sky, and it is raining blood,” Julas answered.

No, this couldn’t be. This was _his_ Dream, _his_ promise!

“They haunt me. They surround me in that Nightmare,” Julas continued. “Appius, even Caius is there, a half-eaten mess. And the voices…the voices tell me that I am disposable, that I can free myself from the chains that bind me, if I only let them in. But they are lies, they offer no reprieve.”

“No!” Onairam punched Julas, sending him flying. “The voices promised me that I was their Chosen! That is _my_ Dream, not your Nightmare! The Dark Gods spoke to me, to me alone!”

“The Nightmare, you have seen it, too?”

“It is no nightmare, you fool, it is a Dream, a promise for greatness and freedom!”

Julas laughed.

“You poor soul, you have been lied to. That is all the Dark Gods can do; they can only lie and deceive and give you empty promises.”

“No!!”

Onairam brought the scourge down with every ounce of his being. It snapped Julas’s sword in half, and bit into his armor. It cleaved through the plasteel, cutting his arm off at the shoulder. “That is _my_ Dream, _my_ promise! I am Chosen, Julas, Chosen by the Dark Gods! They have promised me the galaxy while the Carrion Lord gives us damned silence!”

Behind him, the howls of the fallen rose as another loyalist fell, his armor torn asunder from the tidal waves of blows.

“We must retreat,” one loyalist cried, floundering against the tide of the fallen.

“There is no retreat,” Onairam yelled. “Only death!”

Then the loyalist jumped from the top of the ruins. His arms pin wheeled as he dropped like a proverbial brick. There was a massive crash from two stories down.

“It is just a short jump,” the loyalist weakly called.

“This is neither the time nor the place,” Julas gasped, cradling the remains of his shoulder. “Retreat. Immediately.”

“No!”

Onairam reached out for his former brother, and grabbed a portion of his torn pauldron. But the plasteel was cut to ribbons; it was attached by the fewest of points, and broke like tin in his grip as Julas jumped over a destroyed wall, down the side of the building. The two remaining loyalists quickly followed him, taking the downward express.

“Follow them!” Onairam bellowed, leaping out of after Julas. He had but a second to register the ruins below him. Julas and the surviving loyalists had landed on a ruined roof, cracking the concrete roof. They were gathering themselves, slowly moving away.

Onairam fell, heavily and without grace, crashing into the roof. But the punished building had finally had enough; it gave way under his bulk. He fell through the roof, grasping at Julas. But his former brother was too far from him; he grabbed nothing but air.

Screaming, he fell to the ground floor of the ruined building. But his new skin was tough, and his landing had merely arrested his breath for the briefest of seconds. Onairam pulled himself to his feet, and began chasing Julas. Behind him, he could hear a fallen marine crashing down to the ground floor, his legs snapping from the fall. Behind him, others landed on his screaming form, crushing him to death, but saving themselves of the brutal fall.

The Gods should have saved him from such a fate. He must have done something to earn their ire.

“After them!” He howled. “The Dark Gods demand their heads!”

He crashed through the thin walls, chasing the heavy footfalls above his head.

“There, ahead, there is a stairwell! We shall catch them here!”

Onairam ran outside, seeing the winded loyalists running down them. Explosions crashed against his armor; he was so focused on Julas that he failed to see the squad of Sisters ahead of them.

“You are mine, Julas,” he screamed, raising his scourge.

“Fall back,” Julas gasped. “Give me your sword; I shall hold them.”

An injured loyalist surrendered his sword, and Julas fell into a fighting stance. Bile rose in Onairam’s throat. Even without an arm, his former brother’s form was so perfect, so textbook, so disgustingly flawless it made him want to vomit. Poor Julas, blind to the end.

His scourge threatened to knock the power sword from Julas’ hand, but he was able to hold onto it.

Behind him, Onairam’s fallen went to battle with him; those that were left, that was.

Julas feigned and weaved, looking for the proper moment to strike. Onairam never gave him the opening he needed. He continued to lash out, to drive Julas back with his unholy strength.

“Squad, leave me,” Julas ordered. “Sisters, open fire on us.”

Onairam looked up just as Julas ducked. The squad of Sisters were holding boltguns, plasma guns and a meltagun.

He could feel the blessings of the Dark Gods pushing the plasma bolts to the side. He could feel the bolts detonating against his skin. He could see the bolts and plasma ending the lives of the squad that accompanied him. He could see the bolts hitting Julas, exploding around him. A bolt pinged off Julas’ helmet, ricocheting into his eye, blinding him as the fragile organ burst.

And with his one remaining eye, he could see the point of Julas’ sword shooting forward, piercing his chest. He could feel the blade running his primary heart through, and he could feel it nearly severing his secondary heart. Suddenly, he felt very cold.

“You poor, misguided soul,” Julas said, his voice trembling with pain and emotion. “You have been lied to. If you repent, I shall wish for you to find peace.”

“Y-y…you fuck—the Gods shall save me. T-they have to…they have promised me…”

“Then die in shame, heretic.”

Something pushed Onairam’s body off the sword. Suddenly he was burning, then the feeling of endless cold engulfed him. He tried to stay on his knees, but ended up on the ground.

“Sergeant, your arm--!” The voices seemed a million miles away.

The voices grew more and more distant. All he could hear was his secondary heart pulsing, beating weaker and weaker.

_Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you will have that freedom._

The words were louder than anything. He had heard those words ever night he slept, ever since the cultist uprising in the Ultramar sector. They had burned their way into his head, and they had not moved since then, all those decades ago.

_Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you will have that freedom._

Why were they haunting him now? He felt a stirring in his chest.

_Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you will have that freedom._

He felt a weight eased from his shoulders. The stirring in his chest began worming its way through the rest of his body.

_Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you will have that freedom._

Onairam blinked. The stirring was more of a slithering, and it wound its way through his muscles.

At last, a voice rumbled. My own vessel. 

The slithering feeling wound its way through his fingertips and toes, and he was suddenly bursting with power. He could feel his body shredding, turned to a meaty pulp as is burst from within, exploding with the force of a grenade. He was no more.

And yet, he was there.

Onairam opened his eyes. He had both. The air around him was burning with tracer rounds. Men and women were screaming, and he heard them. The sound was familiar, but he could hear them with a sense of acuteness he knew not that he had.

The sound was not the only thing that felt new. The air around him seemed…sharp. He could feel the cool eddies of air caressing his skin, the heat of the bolt rounds passing by him as they were pushed aside by a force more felt than seen.

The bolt fire died down as he looked at his hands. They were massive, clawed things, dwarfing the power scourge that he had dropped on the ground. And next to him was a massive axe. He could feel the power radiate from it.

It was a living thing, a Greater Daemon. He could feel the rage of the axe course through his hands, its resentment, fury and anger at being forced into servitude. His breath picked up, and he could see the dust below billowing up as he breathed harder and harder.

He tried to look up, to stand, but he couldn’t. He was suddenly a passenger in his own body.

“What is this?” He demanded. He spoke, but his mouth never moved. He spoke as if he was an inner, mental voice.

I thought you’d have liked this, the strange voice rumbled. You wanted freedom from your fate.

Something was grabbing him, wrapping him up, turning him into a puppet. Something was using him, holding and molding and controlling him, pinning his very soul.

“Let go of me!”

Why? I freed you from your fate. Now you can never die; now you can never be used as a simple pawn, to be thrown away at the earliest convenience. You will not be theirs, but you will be mine, now and forever. 

“No! This is not what I wanted!”

I gave you freedom from the rules of _man_. This is exactly what you wanted. But to be free from men, you have to live by the rules of the daemons. If you still do not like it, then I suggest that you be more careful for what you wish for.

The thing, the daemon that controlled his soul arched his back, throwing his head into the air. Behind him, he could feel his wings spreading wide, with baby-smooth skin feeling the air for the first time.

“Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Throne!!”


	28. The Siege of Dimmimar

From the back of the aquifer, hammers rang out. Men and women of the PDF were hammering away at the brick wall that marked the end of the aquifer’s subterranean building; if the old maps and diagrams were right, they were close to a subterranean cellar of the monastery. It was a back-breaking effort to tunnel through dozens of meters of old brick walls, but if they could find any way to link up with the Sisters of Battle, they had to try it.

Wight had the Claws at it as well. The ones with power fists were making the most headway, with the PDF troops clearing the rubble and widening the hole. Each blow was a small crack of thunder, echoing through the massive room.

With her newfound size and strength, Laura was easily able to hoist one of the heaviest sledgehammers. She wound up, cocking it behind her back and swung at the wall, turning bricks to dust. She was tempted to use Uncle Helfist’s iron arm blessing to speed up the work, but the one thing she needed was to give everyone another reason to push her away. She already stood out like a sore thumb.

“Damn,” Kruko gasped as he set down his much smaller sledgehammer. “And I thought running through ruins was hard work.”

Laura grunted. She went from one friend in the monastery to one friend in the PDF, and Kruko only wanted to fuck her silly; she didn’t need to read his mind to know that.

“The work might be hard, but it is worth it.” Laura was surprised to hear Cela approaching them. “Please, take a rest. Drink some water.”

“Oh, you are a true saint,” Kruko smiled, taking one of the water bottles the dark-skinned Sister was offering.

“What about you, Laura? Would you like some water?”

“I’m fine.”

“You must save your strength for the heretics.”

“Didn’t know you cared.”

“I know that Brenia can be…coarse,” Cela said, “but please understand that what she feels is not what I feel.”

“And what, pray tell, do you feel about me?” She said, taking a step from the wall to tower over the Sister and give her a hard look. With her newfound height, Laura knew she struck an imposing figure.

“That you are one of the many wandering souls, searching for your rightful place.”

“Best non-answer I’ve heard ever,” Laura groaned, going back to hammering.

“There is no need for us to be enemies.”

“But plenty of reasons to not be friends, eh?”

“We live in—“

“—The darkest times imaginable, we should not have to come to blows with each other,” she said. “Yea, I heard that plenty of times in the monastery.”

“There is one thing that we share in common. We were both brought up to be leaders.”

“So why are you still a rank-and-file Sister?”

“Laura, come on, Cela’s trying to be friendly,” Kruko said.

“But not friendly enough to stop Brenia from opening her mouth.”

“Would you have preferred that I kept her quiet, and let her glare at you silently?” Cela asked.

“You’re right; the out-right hostility is refreshing compared to the silent judgment.”

“You have every right to be angry,” Cela said. “When you’re willing to talk to me again, I’ll gladly accept you.”

Laura wiped the sweat off her brow, and watched the Sister place a water bottle on the ground before walking off to hand out more water.

“That was awfully cold-hearted,” Kruko said.

“I’m a bit hot-blooded right now,” she replied. “Any reason you’re still around the super-special-awesome, pretty giant princess? Thought Brenia made it clear that the PDF don’t like me.”

“They’re just slow to come around,” he smiled. “I mean, not every day a woman like you comes around. They’ll warm up to you.”

The twisting feeling in her gut told her otherwise. Like she needed to be reminded.

“Come on, we just got off on the wrong foot,” he continued. “I mean, this is the Black Legion we’re talking about; everyone’s on edge, you have to give them that. Laura, you can’t stay mad forever. Can’t you smile a bit? I’m sure they’ll like you better if you show them a smile or two.”

Laura never wanted to break someone in half as much as she did right now, but a massive crash cut her off. The sound quickly amplified, making it sound like a massive peel of thunder; it was louder than the cracks of the power fists the Claws were using. Looking further down the wall, she saw one Claw stagger from a massive billow of dust, shaking debris from his armor.

“Back up,” Uncle Helfist yelled. “Come on, don’t know if any more is coming down. Get away from there.”

The plume of dust began settling down. From the dust came a massive figure in green armor, followed by a team of servitors.

“Croan, you bastard, couldn’t you have just knocked?” Helfist grinned.

“It is good to see you in one piece,” the Salamander laughed. “My apologies for taking so long to tunnel my way to you; servitors are in high demand.”

“Fuck, we’re glad you got through at all,” her Uncle said. “And even more glad that we were able to knock down a wall instead of caving in the whole damn place around our ears.”

“It is quite fortuitous, but we cannot tempt our fate,” Uncle Croan said. “The monestary chambers we were digging from are in dire straits. They have not been serviced in many decades, most likely centuries, and are very fragile. We are working to stabilize them, but they might collapse at any time.”

“What’s life without a little risk?” Uncle Helfist grinned. “You got our message?”

“But of course.” Croan motioned behind him, and more servitors began pulling themselves through the hole they created. They were pulling crates of munitions, weapons and supplies. The PDF men and women cheered.

“Damn, we might actually get out of this alive,” Kruko applauded.

A squawking filled the air. From the tunnel came a servo-skull, beeping and screaming.

 _Croan, we got trouble,_ the skull said, activating its vox-channel. It was Uncle Aevar. _The traitors got a good push in, and broke through several defense lines. They’re moving up Echo-street and the Sisters need some extra firepower._

The news got the PDF soldiers to babble with worry, but the Claws grinned and laughed. Laura could almost smell the kill-urge on them; it was time for the murder-make.

“I just broke through to Helfist,” Croan said. “I shall make sure the PDF are properly armed.”

 _Then maybe we got a chance,_ her uncle laughed. _Get hunting, Helfist. Croan, get up here. The traitors are making good time._

“I shall meet you at the monastery.”

“Claws, form up!” Helfist yelled. “PDF, to arms!”

The Claws howled, running down to the aquifer tunnel, Wight and Helfist catching up. Laura ran with them.

“Hey, wait up.”

Laura groaned as Kruko ran after her. She could easily out-pace him, but then she would be running with the Claws. Then again, what did it matter? Everyone was already either hating her, or treating her like an infiltrator.

“What?” She demanded.

“We need to group up,” he said. “If we go running around by ourselves, that’s a ticket to meeting the Emperor. And while it would be a great honor, it’s one I don’t plan on having for a long time.”

“Fine, just don’t slow me down.”

They jogged down to the aquifer tunnel, following the sound of the howling Claws. Laura’s skin crawled as she saw Brenia jumping into the tunnel.

“Still here?” Brenia hissed, looking her dead in the eyes.

“And miss your radiant face?” Laura said as sweetly as she could. Just as she hoped, it got Brenia to hiss at her. “Come on, there’s heretics to kill.”

“Quite,” Cela said, running after Brenia. “You forgot your extra bolts.”

“Thanks,” the scarred nun said, taking the extra ammo.

Laura lagged behind the Sisters and Kruko, nearly falling back with the regular PDF troops. They ran until they met up with the Claws, who were barely held back by Uncle Helfist. She was surprised to see Uncle Kemuel and his Custodes were already there.

“PDF, you here?” Uncle Helfist said. “Good. Here’s the plan: the Black Legion is making a big push towards the monastery. That means troops and armor will be moving, carrying ammo and other supplies. We pop out of this tunnel and cross two streets, killing and blowing up everything we can see, then jump back into a tunnel to safety. Two streets, you hear me, Claws? Two. You can count, can’t you?”

A few of the PDF troops laughed uneasily.

“We only need ten troopers to come with us, so I need ten people with some adamantium balls,” he called. Brenia stepped forward immediately.  “Don’t go making me look bad out there, okay?”

“No guarantees, _brother_ ,” she frostily replied. Cela joined her.

“Eight more. Come on.”

Laura was the first who stepped forward. She didn’t know Kruko came with her until she was next to the Claws.

“Good, this’ll do it. The rest of you, stay here and get ready to blow any traitor away. Let’s go.”

Kemuel and his brothers heaved a massive piece of concrete aside, letting the sound of war echo down the tunnel. The Claws jumped up, somehow staying quiet. Cela and Brenia pulled themselves up while Kruko needed a boost. Laura simply vaulted the gap like the Claws, and drew her Volkite blaster.

The war hadn’t seemed to change. The building they were in was reduced to utter rubble, which hid their concrete entrance. The Claws were already making their way up out of the leveled basement. She jogged after them, at the head of the PDF unit.

“Heretics,” a Claw spat. Sure enough, there were Rhinos speeding down the streets, carrying who knew what. Next to them was a column of unexpecting traitors. “What do you say, greybeard? This a good time to jump them?”

Wight grunted.

 _“Ojor va Russ!”_ The Claws howled, rushing the traitors. They weren’t able to get a shot off when the wolves were among them.

“PDF, show ‘em what you got,” Kruko yelled, opening fire. All around Laura, the troopers brought their lasguns to bear.

She was able to nail a traitor in the head when she saw Uncle Kemuel and his brothers launch themselves at the Rhinos. Like the last battle, their movements seemed slow, even telegraphed. Using their speed and momentum, they were able to pierce the transport’s side armor with their spears. Secondary explosions rocked the transport, and it died.

“Die, traitors!” Brenia screamed. “You’ll remember the Ebon Chalice!”

 _“Fenrys hjolda!”_ The Claws bellowed as the last traitor’s head was crushed by a power fist.

“Good work,” Uncle Helfist said. “Now keep moving! We got two streets to raise Hel with.”

Laura was already moving, bridging the gap between the Claws, Custodes and the PDF and Sisters. They were running through an alley when the air screamed.

“Get to cover,” Helfist yelled. “Artillery!”

“No, not artillery,” Laura yelled. “Those are jump packs!”

The ground shook as two squads of raptors landed, one in front of them, one behind.

“How nice of you to join us, brothers and sisters,” one raptor grinned as they launched themselves at the front and rear of the group. The Custodes and Vlka charged the ones ahead of them, but the PDF were exposed to the raptors at the rear.

“Get behind me,” Laura yelled, pushing her way to the back. The raptors laughed as they killed one PDF trooper. The rest of the troopers were shooting wildly, hoping to save themselves from the raptor’s wrath.

The raptors were fast, Laura knew it, but at the same time, they moved slow, like Uncle Kemuel. A raptor was about to decapitate Brenia when Laura launched herself in-between them, deflecting the killing blow.

“Wha—“

The raptor never finished his sentence. She brought her sword around, slicing his head from his neck. Two other raptors roared and charged her, carrying two chainswords each. Laura easily parried the blows from each of them, allowing their fell brothers time to catch up. They were giving their all, but it was like they were moving underwater; each attack was telegraphed and slow.

Once all four remaining raptors were near her, she began fighting back. She put some muscle into her blocks, and was able to throw their guards wide open. Somehow the raptors were weak enough to nearly have their swords pried from their hands.

She shot one raptor in the face with her Volkite blaster, the one who was dumb enough to forgo his helmet. Another she unzipped, nave to chap, and before his insides could hit the ground, she disarmed the third and ran the fourth through, taking him off his feet and throwing him to the ground.

“By the Emperor,” Cela gasped.

“That one’s yours, if you want him,” she said, pointing to the armless raptor. Brenia wasted no time filling him with holes.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she hissed. “I ain’t gonna get all girly on you, braiding your hair and talking about boys, you freak.”

“Good. I don’t want you touching my hair.”

 

* * *

 

Abaddon stood on the balcony of the rare building that wasn’t reduced to rubble. He gazed out at the battlefield, looking for plumes of black smoke. Plenty black smoke was to the north, but his eyes were to the south.

“What are you searching for?” Azubhor asked.

“Quiet, sorcerer, or I shall add another chain to you.”

“The first several were rough, but I have taken a strange liking to them,” the psyker laughed. Several chains were bolted through his body, linking him to several small boulders. Blood trickled down all of them, staining them red like rust. A group of Spawns were there to carry him about. “There is some space on my left calf.”

“I am in no mood for jokes, sorcerer,” Abaddon said, advancing on the injured psyker. “As loath as I am to say it, you are the best at finding what the loyalist have created. So reach out, sense that creation, and point me to it.”

“I cannot.”

Abaddon casually backhanded the psyker, breaking off another ornate horn that grew from his helm.

“Truly, I cannot,” Azubhor spat. “The creation you seek has found a way to disguise itself from my eyes, from the eyes of the Great Sea.”

“Then I can only find it with my own two eyes, leaving me to scan the back alleys of the war,” Abaddon hissed. “The dogs of the Emperor are many things, but sloppy they are not. They will attack our back lines, like they have done before; with Onairam making great advances, they will be desperate to draw pressure from the monastery. And when they do, that is when we shall strike. And you had best hope that the loyalist creation is there, else you shall be getting that eighth chain.”

An explosion echoed, far from the front lines. And black smoke began to rise.

“Raptors, there,” Abaddon ordered, screaming into his vox-caster. “The loyalists are attacking. Pursue them, cut off their escape. We are moving to intercept.”

“And what of me?”

“You shall be attended to.” Abaddon strode from the balcony. “Move him.”

The four Chaos spawns bowed their heads submissively. While normally feral things, Abaddon was able to bind them to his will, like so many other of the fallen daemons. Truly, he was Chaos’ champion. The four monstrosities gathered up the rocks that were chained to Azubhor, and followed Abaddon out of the building.

“Are these truly necessary?” Azubhor asked.

“So long as you remain loyal to Tzeentch and not to me.”

“You wound me so.”

“And I will wound you again so long as you continue these games.”

“Oh, but the Grand Game _must_ be played. You know what I speak of, do you not? The game the Gods play to vie for supremacy of the warp.”

“Played by the Gods and their minions; _not_ by me.”

“But you play it nonetheless,” the psyker laughed. “Just because you choose _not_ to play does not remove you from play. Surely you _must_ know that, do you?”

A roar echoed through the ruined city. Abaddon and his servants stopped. It was a deep, bone-shaking roar, one that he had heard many a times. It made the Despoiler’s skin crawl.

“Another piece moves in the Grand Game,” the sorcerer laughed. “Do not tell me that you do not enjoy this. The thrill, the way the Game suddenly changes with the appearance of another piece, the need to stay unfocused, yet disciplined…do you not see this? Do you not enjoy it?”

Abaddon raised his hand to deal another blow to the psyker, but a dark shadow rose in the distance. Brilliant tracer fire filled the air, but the thing flew on, somehow avoiding the fire, growing larger and larger, until it was suddenly descending from the skies, landing with a heavy force that shook the ruins around him.

The daemon prince dug his feet into the ground, tearing up the soil as it skidded under his own momentum, until it stopped but a few feet from Abaddon.

“Despoiler,” the prince grinned. “Interesting to find you towards the _rear_ of the column.”

“And who might you be?” Abaddon asked, resting his hand on the daemon sword Drach’nyen.

“Once, I was known as the Lord Ravenger. Once, I was called Onairam.”

Abaddon narrowed his eyes. The damned fool sold his soul, sold his freedom, and had made himself another plaything.

“That look in your eyes; you do remember me,” the sworn prince of Khorne grinned. At his waist was a massive axe, another daemon weapon that Abaddon recognized. “I’m glad.”

“What is it you want?” Abaddon demanded. “Surely you know what I am looking for.”

“Oh, I do,” the prince that was formerly Onairam smiled. “I come to tell you that the reward shall be great, should you give the Abomination to the Blood God.”

“Do not play coy with me,” Abaddon snapped. “What is it that you carry from your master?”

“Your gifts shall be great, should you give the loyalist’s creation to Chaos Undivided, but they shall be greater should you give it to Khorne,” Formerly Onairam said. “The other gods are right to want what the loyalists have created; it could transform the very balance of power in the warp. All that Khorne desires is that you give him what is truly his by right as the most powerful deity in the warp.”

“The Grand Game must be played, is it not?” Azubhor laughed.

“Quite so,” Formerly Onairam said. “You have time to think on this, Despoiler. In the meantime, there are heads that are still attached to their spines.”

Formerly Onairam turned away, unfurling his wings. Laughing, he flew back towards the massive push towards the Sister’s monastery.

“Is it wise to trust him with commanding?” Azubhor asked.

“I trust him as far as I am able to throw him.”

“Then there is hope for you yet.”

“’Hope for me yet?’” The Despoiler snapped. “Sorcerer, you forget your place.”

“I know my place all too well,” he said. “But we now know that Khorne has his eyes on the creation of the loyalists. That means that the other gods are making, or at least planning, a play at it.”

“Do you have a point to this, or do you mean to simply prattle on until I tear your tongue from your head?”

“Just offering a simple agreement,” Azubhor said. “One that benefits all.”

“And what makes you think that I shall accept this agreement?”

“Nothing,” the sorcerer said. “The Changer of Ways tells me nothing. I am at your complete mercy; I am the simple messenger. But I want you to know that Tzeentch will work with any chaos god, so long as it is for the downfall of the Imperium and the ascension of humanity to become a race of pure psykers. That is the only agreement I am able to talk about.”

“So maybe you are not so useless. Very well then; what is it that the Changer of Ways offers, and what does he expect in return?”

“He offers an end to all of this,” the psyker said. The chains driven through his arms rattled as he spread his arms wide, gesturing to the entire battlefield.

Abaddon backhanded the sorcerer again, throwing him to the ground. The chains kept him in place.

“Do not speak in riddles, sorcerer!”

“Please, I am merely the messenger,” Azubhor said, spitting out blood. “Surely you can give me that pity.”

“Then tell me again, tell me true, what is it that Tzeentch offers?”

“And end to the fighting,” he said. “A way to get you back to Cadia, to rejoin the Crusades and to strike at the very heart of the corrupt Imperium.”

“And what must I sell to achieve his favor?”

“Nothing.”

“Now _that_ is a jest.”

“Truly, it is not,” Azubhor said. “Remember, Despoiler, I am simply a messenger. My master tells me that he, with all his might, will end this battle so you may return to Cadia, and you simply must do nothing.”

“He does not want this Abomination that the loyalists have somehow created?”

“I would imagine that he would, but he tells me nothing. You simply have to do nothing, at least nothing that you were not planning to do already, and he will work.”

Abaddon growled, gnashing his teeth.

“I will not play into the hand of the Changer of Ways,” he spat. “I will not play _any_ game or plot that involves him. I will do what I have planned on doing, and damn his help.”

“Just because you chose not to play does it mean that you are not in play of the Great Game,” Azubhor laughed. “Remember those words, Abaddon, for they will serve you well.”

 

* * *

 

“Push forward,” Uncle Kemuel yelled. “We are nearing our objective.”

The Claws roared, rushing the two Rhinos. There form was good, but it seemed slow; but then again, nearly everything had become slow.

Brenia and Cela screamed their devotion as they unleashed bolt fire upon the tides of the enemy, and the PDF troopers screamed with them, adding their lasguns to the bolt fire. Wight and Uncle Helfist were tag-teaming a chaos Terminator, Uncle Kemuel and his Custodes was holding a warpsmith at bay, and Laura was in the middle of the massive fight, looking for a place to join.

A traitor was able to brave the bolt fire and charge the PDF troopers. Kruko was nearly cut in two by a massive chainaxe, but Laura pushed her way forward and slice the traitor’s arm off before gutting him.

“You saved me,” Kruko gasped.

“Don’t get started,” she snapped. “We’re still in a battlefield.”

The ground shook as the Rhinos were blown up. Judging from the shockwave, they were carrying munitions.

“Keep moving,” Uncle Helfist said. “We’re almost there.”

The troopers were gasping for breath, begging the Emperor for forgiveness and rest. Laura helped a few along, getting them into the ruined building.

“Entrance?” Wight asked.

“It’s here, somewhere,” Kurko said. “Does anyone have a vox?”

Movement caught Laura’s eye. A single traitor was approaching the ruins. He climbed through a window gracefully, with more poise than anyone wearing power armor could achieve.

“Traitor,” Laura called, launching herself at the renegade marine. She brought her sword around, only to have the heretic block it with a strange, alien blade.

The movement was sudden. Even to Laura, he moved fast. Then the renegade began changing, the armor smoking and melting, falling off until a black-clad woman was standing in his place.

“Aunt Geist?”

“’Aunt?’” Brenia shouted. “Just how many Throne-damned people do you know?!”

“Laura, it is good to see you,” her aunt said. She craned her neck to look up at her. “You…you have changed.”

“This is all heartwarming, but this isn’t the place,” Helfist said. The air shimmered as he summoned power from Fenris, and hoisted a large piece of concrete up, revealing the entrance to the aquifer. Below, a team of troopers were waiting. “Everyone, in.”

The troopers needed no second warning. Cela dragged Brenia with her, and Laura entered with her Aunt Geist and the Custodes. Helfist jumped in, letting the concrete slam into place.

“’Two blocks?’” Wight laughed nervously. “Two _miles_.”

“If you think that was rough, someday I shall have to tell you about the War in the Webway,” Uncle Kemuel said. “This was luck. The traitors should have been there in force, instead of the few that we encountered.”

“Just a few?” Brenia said. “Damn raptors nearly killed us. How did that freak move so fast?”

“’That freak’ is here, and she’d like it if you showed a bit more respect for saving your skinny ass,” Laura snapped.

“Alright, stop it, the both of you,” Helfist said, stepping between them. “Save your wrath for the heretics. Fekke people, this is a damn war.”

“Helfist is right, we need to work with each other, not against each other,” Aunt Geist said. “This one has been looking for you, but she has to be the bearer of dark news: The Despoiler himself is searching for you.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you just said that the Despoiler himself was trying to kill us,” Kruko said.

“That’s fucking insane,” Brenia said. “What would the Despoiler want with us?”

“It is unknown at this time. All that this one had learned is because of something the Blasphemer has created.”

“Did old man Ironclaws make a new relic?” Helfist asked. “Kemuel, you got any ideas what this could be?”

“I do not,” the Custode said. “But this changes our plans.”

“Aye, it sure does. To have the Despoiler looking for you…”

Dammit, Laura didn’t want to say anything. But there was only one thing that came from Uncle Aevar’s forge.

“I…I have a sword he made,” she mumbled. She could hear Brenia snort. But of course the Princess would have a relic. She drew the sword and handed it hilt-first to Geist.

“It is a marvelous blade,” she said, feeling the weight and balance, “but this one does not see why it would draw the Despoiler’s attention.”

“Who would?” Helfist said. “Knowing old man Ironclaws, he probably put some kind of new relic in it without telling anyone.”

“No wonder the Despoiler would want such a thing,” Geist said, returning the sword. “We had best take care of this.”

“Then what do we do?” Kruko asked. “We got a…a _relic_ that the Despoiler wants. Something he’d leave the Crusade for.”

“We need to return to base,” Uncle Kemuel said. “We have already disrupted several supply envoys to the front; the Black Legion will have to halt their advance, or else risk over-extending themselves and having their momentum turned on them. That gives us time to regroup and formulate a battle plan.”

“And now that we can get to the monastery, we can link up with the other aquifers and move around the city,” Kruko said.

“That’s a good idea,” Helfist said. “Let’s get back, find other places to raid.”

“Walk with the Emperor,” Geist said. “This one must return to the field.”

“You know, we just might get out of this scrap with a story to tell,” Helfist said, shaking his head.

Wight grunted.

 

* * *

 

“I-Inquisitor!”

Parsef choked back a cough as he walked into the newly liberated aquifer. It wouldn’t be very becoming of a man of his rank and stature to cough from a little dust.

Of course, there was much more than a ‘little’ dust. A few precious servitors were working to widen and properly brace the crude hole the wolves punched into the wall. It pained him to see the servitors pulled from the forge city, but Aevar had reassured him that their forge work would not be dampened by a few missing servitors.

“Commissar Sican. It is good to meet another friendly face, and one that had kept the PDF in fighting shape since the heretics made planet fall.”

“It is an honor, Inquisitor,” Sican said, bowing. The man had obviously done the best he could to clean himself up. Deep bags were hanging under his eyes, and his clothes were still incredibly dusty, but Parsef could respect the attempt. “Have we been able to make contact with the troops in other aquifers?”

“That we have,” Parsef said. “I have an asset in the field who will be physically contacting the ones that have not answered. Don’t worry, we will find our brothers and sisters.”

From the slowly-widening tunnel, Croan pushed another crate of munitions into the aquifer.

“There is one thing that you will not have to spend much time worrying about,” the Salamander said. “Fresh batteries from the forge, and new turrets in case the heretics find their way to the tunnels.”

A few of the troopers gasped as they saw a group of Sisters entering the tunnel. Unlike the rank and file Sisters of Battle, these Sisters were wearing hardly any more than the barest of clothes. Undergarments and simple sackcloth tunics stretched from their shoulders to knees. Many wore a headscarf that barely revealed their faces. The one thing that all the Sisters had in common were numerous scars that adorned their bodies, and massive, heavy Eviscerator chainswords.

Accompanying the strangely-armed Sisters’ groups were other Sisters wearing traditional power armor, holding lashes. Occasionally, one would whip a sackcloth wearing Sister, urging her forward. The Sister would bite her tongue, and carry on.

“These are the Sisters Repenta,” Parsef said. “They will be attacking the heretics’ back lines, much like how the wolves are doing.”

“They will be attacking with the wolves?”

“Not with, but at similar targets. That is where you and your troopers come in. We will need your troopers to scout the areas around the tunnel entrances, finding targets, troop columns and munitions transports. When they find them, you will vox them in, and the Sisters will hit them.”

Sican looked over Parsef’s shoulders at the Sisters Repenta, looking over their armor or lack thereof. Parsef could see him realize that the difference between the wolves was that the Sisters were not expecting to come back.

“U-understood,” he said. “But…but why do the Sisters bear this burden?”

“They have sinned, and this is their atonement,” Parsef said. “Were you not a Dimmimar citizen?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“Then all you need to know is that these Sisters feel it is their burden to carry the sins of the Daughters of the Emperor. Do not pity them, for they shall have eternal rewards at the Emperor’s side. They’ll never give less than their best.”

 

* * *

 

“What in the Emperor’s name is going on?” Lynia demanded. She stormed from the heavily fortified entrance to the monastery, flanked by heavily armored and armed Sisters. The fortifications were dug deep and covered with nearly a foot of earth. The ‘ceiling’ rattled as artillery pounded the ground.

“It is just as we report. A daemon prince has spawned,” one Sister spat. “And it’s cutting its way through our ranks and defenses.”

“Have the Sisters Repenta been dispatched?”

“They were among the first responders. But the daemon is skilled; they were killed with hardly getting a chance to attack.”

“In death is your atonement, sisters,” Lynia prayed. The ground shook as traitor artillery slammed into the ground, shaking soil loose through the quickly-built battlements. “What is our status?”

“Julas and his Devestators are trying to get back to the front, but they are heavily wounded. The Legion pushing us, it is hard to form proper defense lines.”

“Canoness.” A breathless Sister aspirant came running from down the trench line. “Word from the northern and southern vox line’s; the traitors are surging, pushing our defenses to the breaking point.”

“Tell the Mechanicus to hold strong and unleash the Repentas.”

“But we don’t have enough Repentas to maintain a counter-assault.”

“If we don’t counter with something, we might not get the chance at all,” Lynia snapped. “Give the order, and tell the Grey Knights to move from their positions towards the daemon prince.”

“Oh, holy Emperor, strengthen my hand…” the Sister prayed as she ran back to the vox.

“Quickly, to the front,” Lynia said to her guard.

They ran, passing battlement after battlement, trench begetting trench. Each was planned with care, a gift from the assassin Geist, and that gift was what kept them in the battle. More sisters were digging foxholes and reinforcing breastworks; even this far from the front, enemy artillery was still landing dangerously close.

“Canoness.” Parsef’s team of Grey Knights were approaching. With their super-human gene-seed, their heads threatened to stick above the trench work that was dug. Their armor, usually a flawless silver, was dirt and grime covered, covered with dents, which turned it into a muted, almost rusted tarnished steel. But their halberds were sharp, and they moved with purpose. “We heard you had a daemon problem.”

“That we do,” Lynia said. “With me. We need to push this bastard back into the warp.”

Even through the continuous drone of battle, the front was alive with action. Bolters were firing non-stop, air cracked with missiles from the turrets that Croan had erected, screams of devotion and prayer, and the laughing of the massive daemon.

It stood tall, a monster made flesh, as it broke from line to line, its massive axe swinging to and fro, each swipe throwing blood into the air and ripping a scream from a sister.

Those that were readying for the assault were quiet, filled with grim determination, but also simmering in fear. The heretics never pushed this hard this fast, and the shock of the assault and the daemon was clear on their eyes. That had to change.

“Sisters, we are challenged today,” Lynia yelled. Many of the besieged Sisters stopped to look at her, eyes either wide with fear, or full of faith as they tried to overcome the rampaging terror. “We have been challenged for weeks. We have been fighting the damned Black Legion, ill-prepared and lacking a comfortable amount of supplies for such a siege. And a lost soul with has drawn the fell attention of the Dark Gods. He rushes us, Sisters, baying for our blood.

“But we are not yet broken! Under-staffed and under-equipped, we have held the Black Legion back! And dammit, we _will_ hold them back! We will show the Black Legion that we are not some weak-kneed women who play in armor for fun. We will show them that we are the Sisters of Battle, and that none shall match our conviction.

“Pray with me, sisters! ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for I am the evilest bitch in the valley!’”

Sisters cheered.

“And _when_ we break the backs of the heretic’s forces, we will show them that we are the guardians of the faith. We have seen _their_ faith, we have seen _their_ gods, and we have found them lacking! Pray, sisters: ‘I shall strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy my sisters. And you will know my name is the Emperor, as I lay my vengeance upon you!’”

The Sisters roared, pumping their fists into the air. It made Lynia glad, for they would need all their faith to halt such an advance.

“To war we walk!” She screamed.

“In the light of the Emperor!” Her Sisters yelled back.

Cheering, their faith renewed, the Sisters manned their stations. Lynia took five steps, and suddenly she was at the front; her guards and the Knights followed her, holding their weapons steady. The Sisters in the trench gaped and bowed.

“None of that, sisters,” Lynia said. “With this siege, we are all of one rank.”

The massive daemon prince bellowed fury, having finished venting his unholy wrath upon the last squad of Mechanicus tech priests and their robotic servants. His gaze drifted up, falling on their defensive lines.

“Bolters, open fire,” Lynia screamed. The air cracked as the mass-reactive rounds filled the air with tracer rounds.

“More blood,” the daemon laughed. “More skulls.”

“Hold heavy fire,” Lynia commanded. The daemon launched itself towards their lines. “Hold steady, sisters.”

The daemon was not flying, more like leaping with great bounds. Its wings were flapping, helping to propel it into the air before coming down on the ground.

“Hold.”

The daemon launched itself in the air, truly flying now, and began diving towards the ground.

“Now! Fire!”

Missiles, multi-meltas and even a lascannon from the Mechanicus opened fire, throwing their might against the daemon. A krak missile managed to hit it square in the chest; it exploded, throwing the daemon backwards. It hit the ground, causing the earth to shake, and bounced backwards twice more. The Sisters cheered, even as the monster slowly got to its feet.

“Keep firing, the heretics are coming with it,” Lynia called, hammering away at her bolter.

The daemon pulled itself to its feet, still dazed from being knocked from the sky. A column of traitors was closing in fast, capitalizing on the prince’s arrival. They ran forward, only a few tripping some still-buried landmines. They rushed to the prince’s side, but the daemon pushed them away as he grabbed its cursed axe.

“Mechanicus, unleash your fury,” Lynia ordered. “We must hold them here.”

Deep in the heretic’s backfields, Lynia noticed that oily black smoke was rising. Was that their miracle? Was that the wolves, or just more war machines advancing?

The daemon was back on its feet, and was screaming at them. But a heretic was trying to talk to it. The daemon stared at them, and Lynia was sure that it was staring at her and her alone. She could feel the raw, burning hate in its eyes. But her faith was her shield, and she steeled herself against the daemon’s presence.

“Canoness, where is the daemon’s support?” One of the Knights asked.

Lynia tore her eyes from the daemon. Behind him were a few heavily-damaged Rhinos, a handful of disorganized heretics, and not much else. It was the daemon and a handful of injured traitors against the might of the Emperor.

“Move forward!” She cried, vaulting the earthen breastworks. The Knights moved with her, maintaining their fire from their wrist-mounted storm bolters. Her sisters roared and followed her across no-man’s land.

“Mechanicus, move,” she ordered. “Push them back.”

The cannons of the Mechanicus never stopped firing, but she could see the tank-treaded destroyers moving through the ruins, and the ground shook as the Kastelan Robots advanced, their tech priests singing psalms and blessings in Binary.

The daemon growled, his unholy charm pushing most of the incoming fire aside. Other rounds slammed into him, but his massive bulk protected him; where a bolt would beat down a heretic, his size let him carry on.

“Move up, damn you,” he roared at the heretics. “Move!”

Without proper support, the heretics with the daemon suddenly found themselves outnumbered and outgunned; they had moved forward too fast, pushed too far, and found themselves lacking proper support. They jumped into the abandoned trenches, but the trenches were designed by Geist, the crafty assassin from Krieg. She had thought of such a situation when she gave her plans to the Sisters and Mechanicus to build the trench system.

From the rear, each trench gradually dipped into the earth before it shot up to form a solid breastwork. This protected Lynia’s sisters from incoming traitor fire, but it prevented the traitors from claiming the trenches for themselves. The traitors were slowly cut down, trying to scramble over the walls of the trenches.

“Their momentum is spent, sisters. Drive them back!”

In the distance, heretic troops were advancing. They were vaulting over the trenches and fighting through the barbed wire, trying to catch up to the daemon prince. An occasional mine would explode showering the area with dirt and blood. But they were easily a block and a half away.

“Keep pushing them,” Lynia screamed, moving forward. “Fight on, sisters!”

The daemon prince was screaming for his troops to move up. A lascannon from the lines of the Mechanicus perforated his chest, making his scream anew. But the damned thing was still alive; it began crawling back towards the advancing heretic line.

“This is a blessing, sisters!” Lynia said. “The Emperor’s Angels of Death had stalled their back lines. The Wolves have cut their legs, and they are limping along! We must not let this blessing go to waste. Forward!”

“For the Emperor!”

The small group of heretics were slowly cut down trying to retreat. The trench design was too perfect in denying them cover from the Sisters. The daemon prince, gore leaking from the massive chest wound, began beating his wings, lifting himself into the air.

“He fears us, Sisters!” Lynia cheered.

The roar from the battle lines was joyous. Many sisters were screaming their devotion; many more were laughing at the coward. Finally, all of the heretics that were advancing with the daemon were dead, cut down from the withering fire. But they were still a block away from the advancing lines.

“Charge! We must retake our ground!”

Every Sister broke from their steady advance to charge across the open ground. Lynia ran with them, pushing herself through the broken ground and twisted barbed wire that was left as a present to the heretics.

From the ruins of the buildings, she could hear the tech-priests change their Binary chant. It was a loud, invigorating chant, and she could see the multiple constructs beat a faster pace. But they were still lagging behind.

Dammit, they needed to move faster.

“This is Canoness Lynia to all available western units, do we have any sister Seraphims who can rapidly deploy?”

_Canoness, we’re ready to deploy. Give us our orders._

“The heretic push has collapsed, and we are retaking ground. We need you to reclaim our land while we arrive.”

_We see you. We’ll hold the ground, but not for long._

Screaming from the sky, the Seraphim descended, bolt pistols chattering. Lynia could see that more than a few had plasma pistols in their hands as well. The heretic line did not stop moving, but a few traitors did drop.

“Our sisters need us,” a Grey Knight yelled. “Onward!”

The heretic line moved closer, and the Seraphim charged, bowling over several traitors. They were less than a block away; they were so close. From their side, the Grey Knights gave up on shooting altogether and broke into a dead run. Lynia could feel the pull of the warp as they chanted blessings to make them move faster.

“We must move faster,” Lynia gasped. “Oh, Emperor, let us reach our sisters in time.”

Two fully-manned squads of traitors were moving to envelop the Seraphim. Suddenly, brilliant lines from the ruins cut their ranks down; the Mechanicus had arrived.

 _Deployed, and unleashing the fury of the Machine God,_ the vox crackled.

The heretics were pushed back, moving to cover behind the armored carriers that brought them to the front. They had quickly found out that the trenches were not designed to give them cover.

“For the Emperor!” The Grey Knight howled, leaping into the fray. Traitors were cut down by their charge, and the Seraphim were able to breathe a sigh of relief.

Finally, Lynia and her sisters were at the front.

“To our sisters! Purifiers, stay back and prepare for over watch.”

“Withdraw,” the heretics sputtered, seeing the wall of Sisters approaching. “We must retreat!”

“It is too late for that, heretics. Face your death!”

The exhausted, wounded Seraphim shrunk back from the fight, replaced by their sisters. Against their fury, against their numbers, against the Knights, the heretics stood no chance.

“To the trenches,” Lynia ordered. “We shall stand tall here. We shall hold them back here.”

Her sisters roared, taking their positions back at the trenches. The Knights fell into cover with them, then assumed firing positions. Behind them, the purifiers began returning fire, adding their weapon blasts to the never-ending barrage of the Mechanicus.

“Yes, here is good,” she gasped, realizing just how tired she was. How was it that Aevar kept running around like he was so young? Maybe it was time; either for another rejuvenation surgery or to retire.

“You, sister,” Lynia said, pointing to a fellow Sister. She did her best to hide her exhaustion. “How many blocks have we re-taken?”

“One, Canoness,” she replied. “Just over one.”

“Just over one,” Lynia mumbled. The line had still collapsed, and she didn’t know how many sisters she had sacrificed to hold the other three fronts. “We need another miracle.”

 

* * *

 

Onairam screamed as his flesh was pulled shut.

“I’ll take your head for that!” The daemon that controlled him bellowed.

“Please, it’s just a big hole,” the traitor marine laughed as he pushed the needle through his hide. “Be glad I am not filling it with anything else.”

The daemon glared death at the traitor. Their skin crawled as he realized the traitor had dedicated his soul to Slaanesh. The ritualistic scars and twisted, forked tongue were a dead giveaway, and the daemon that wrapped his soul could smell it on him.

“Unhand me,” it yelled, hitting the traitor marine with enough force to send him flying, “you cowardly seed-sucking degenerate.”

“That was a good one,” the traitor marine laughed, sucking at his broken teeth. “I’ll have to tell my lord about this. Oh, the irony of saving a Khorne daemon. And the cracked teeth are nice, too.”

“Then tell him of the joy of having his/her, teeth broken,” the daemon hissed. “All they would have to do is ask, and Khorne will provide all of the broken teeth Slaanesh could desire.”

“Tempting,” the noise marine cooed. “I will have to think about that. But my lord would enjoy it.”

Inside, Onairam screamed. The daemon that twisted around his soul was crushing him, controlling him.

And he was so close to being truly free.

There can be no freedom, the daemon growled. You will simply be taken to the warp with me. Remember: _I_ am your freedom. _You_ are the one who asked for this _._

The daemon grabbed a passing aspiring champion as his squad made its way to the front.

“Where were our damn reserves?”

“Loyalists,” the aspiring champion stammered. “They are attacked our back line. Many of us stood back to protect supply Rhinos. Damn suicidal sister, carrying chainswords as big as they are. They must have been hiding, because they came from nowhere. Screaming and swinging those damn swords. And the damned dogs of the False Emperor…”

The daemon’s heart picked up. Where the dogs were, the Abomination was.

“Was there someone with those dogs?” He demanded. “Someone who wasn’t a marine?”

“I do not know,” the aspiring champion stammered. “I was not at the back lines; I only heard the rumors.”

The daemon growled and let him go. This war needed to be ended; Khorne needed the Abomination that the loyalists created, they needed to return to Cadia, and his damned flesh needed to heal.

 

* * *

 

Abaddon bellowed as he hacked two sisters in half. The sisters died, but two more took their place. Both hit him, but only one was able to cut into his flesh.

Not that it mattered. Despite the pain the whirling teeth of the sword caused, Abaddon easily hacked them to pieces.

“The battle grows desperate,” Azubhor chuckled, rattling his chains from the rear of the group. The spawns were still guarding him, but they wanted to join in the bloodletting too. But Abaddon wouldn’t let them. “Here we are, digging through dust and ruins, following a cold trail.”

“I shall have your life, traitor,” he spat.

“Traitor? We have both forsaken bonds we swore. They were to the False Emperor, yes, but we still broke them. That makes us both traitors.”

“But you send our brethren to their deaths,” Abaddon accused. “There is no honor to you.”

“Oh, please,” Azuhbor laughed. “You cannot truly believe that I have personally slighted you. I am a simple messenger on behalf of the Changer of Ways.”

“You?” Abaddon said. “You are but a tool. It is hard to blame a tool, but since you are here, you can carry my wrath back to your lord.”

“I can see the allure of it,” the psyker said. “But we still cannot find the thing the loyalists have created.”

There was a crackle in the air; it was the unmistakable sound of drop pods hitting the atmosphere.

“Who could be deploying now?” The Despoiler demanded.

Craning his neck, he could see what he suspected. From the sky, drop pods were raining down. Yellow drop pods. He did not know the marks on them, but no traitor force used exclusively yellow and a black-and-white checkered pattern.

“Are those loyalists drop pods?” Azubhor asked innocently.

“Are you not connected to the Great Sea?” Abaddon hissed. “Or are you simply blind?”

“I wanted to make sure that my eyes were not deceiving me.”

“Loyalist forces should not have been here for quite some time.”

“It _has_ been a month.”

“A month is not enough time for a Chapter to summon a call,” Abaddon yelled. Then he suddenly realized what he should have seen from the very beginning.

“What?” The Thousand Sons psyker asked. Innocence was in his voice, and it ate away at Abaddon like acid.

“The only way for they loyalists to arrive in such time was to have their forces moving to us before the invasion began,” Abaddon said. “That is impossible.”

“It does sounds quite impossible,” the traitor agreed.

“The loyalists could not be here without extraordinarily good travelling in the warp.”

“That makes sense,” the sorcerer said.

“And there is one god that controls the warp.”

“Is that an accusation in your voice?” Azubhor asked.

“It is!” Abaddon yelled. “Was your patron god working against us? Against me?”

“What do you mean?”

“How can they get here fast enough to combat us?” The Despoiler yelled. “How can they travel this fast without a warpstorm, or without the blessing of Tzeentch?”

“I am just a messenger.”

“And you will answer for your crimes,” Abaddon declared, drawing the daemon sword Drach’nyen and pressing it against the psyker’s throat. “You had said that the Changer of Ways will bring about the end of this, did you not?”

“The end of what?” the psyker asked coyly.

The first swipe severed the man’s arm above the elbow. 

“You damned well know what I am speaking of,” Abaddon bellowed. Against his mighty screaming, the howls of agony from Azubhor were pitiful. “What did the Changer of Ways say he would end? The battle?”

Gasping in pain, the psyker had to try a few times to form complete sentences.

“That was all that he told me,” he finally choked out.

“And did he say _how_ the battle would end?”

“N-no.”

The next swipe took off the other arm at the elbow.

“Because he is busy playing his fucking ‘Game,’” the Despoiler sneered. “The Imperium must be destroyed, and he is hatching scheme after scheme, pitting us against ourselves. Does he not know that we are so close to bringing the Corpse Empire to its knees? We have Cadia in our grasp, and he battles us _here?_ ”

“Ha, you are truly more perceptive than I thought,” the mutant said, laughing with a mixture of mirth and pain. “I had thought that you would miss that loophole about the siege ending.”

“After the near-destruction of my fleet?” Abaddon said. “What exactly do you take me for?”

“Truth be told, I do not know what to take you for.” Things were wiggling out of the stumps. Tentacles, or feathers. Whatever they were, they were straining against the flesh of Azubhor, trying to get free. “Who knows what you are truly thinking of in that head of yours?”

“You will never know.” Abaddon struck the traitor down before the damned mutation could take hold any longer.

He looked up to the sky, seeing the drop pods raining down. If only he had more troops to throw at the problem. If only he had more ships that survived. If only…if only he hadn’t failed the gods. If only he curried for their favor.

He would have to do better, work harder to gain their power.

“Go, do what you do best,” he told the spawns.

The mutant, tentacle things raced away, finally free of their bounds with Abaddon. With his army spread to the breaking point, bogged down in dense urban fighting, retreat was all that was left. At least there was still the Crusade at Cadia. He could not get bogged down on this damned planet, especially with reinforcements arriving. Damn it all, he needed whatever it was that the loyalists created.

Idly, he wondered what to tell the daemon prince of Khorne, Formerly Onairam. He could spin it, keep his aid longer than he thought he would.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was ensuring the safety of his ships, and their prompt return to Cadia and the Crusades. They have wasted enough time as it was.

 

* * *

 

Laura was realizing that their attacks were the only thing that was preventing the total, absolute collapse of the defensive lines. With every attack the Wolves made, it was drawing troops and supplies from pushing forward to the monastery. Every destroyed or wrecked vehicle clogged the streets, making it necessary to stop and tow the vehicles off to the side. It was actually very beautiful; for every step the traitors took forward, they had to take at least a shuffle back. But sooner or later, the Black Legion would reach the monastery.

The revving of chainsword engines snapped her back to reality. The Sister Repentas were howling as they changed the Legion’s transports. Their zeal was unmatched, but their screams were sorrowful. They were seeking their atonement, and they were finding it.

The transport they were attacking had no weapons, and from the looks of the dirt the treads displaced, it was heavy. That meant ordinance.

“Get to cover,” she yelled, pulling Kruko and Cela by the nape of their necks, back to the ruin. Sure enough, the transport exploded, rocking the very ground as it took the Repentas to the grave. The wall that protected them rattled, but it seemed to hold. She scanned the streets for the wolves or Uncle Kemuel.

“Where are the marines?” Kruko hissed, crawling up to Laura.

“They’re letting them group up.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it saves them the effort of tracking them down one by one. Now shut up.”

The surviving heretics were gathering around a vocal leader, a heretic who undoubtedly saw himself in a higher position than the one he was in. He was gathering the survivors, ordering them to defensive formations, and they were about to take them when the wolves broke from the shadows.

Movement caught Laura’s eye. In the shadows of yet another ruined building, Uncle Kemuel and his brothers stood watch, wary of any counter-assault units. Seeing none, they broke from cover to add their might to the melee.

“What was that?” Kruko asked. He pointed to the sky, and Laura looked up. Vapor streaks were falling from the heavens.

“Drop pods,” Brenia smiled. “Hell, it’s about time.”

“Those are not traitor colors,” Cela said, “they are fellow loyalists. We are delivered!”

In the street, the wolves and Custodes had finished the last traitor. The two remaining Claws howled victoriously, but Wight and Uncle Helfist remained on guard. Uncle Kemuel scanned the streets.

“Come on, let’s move,” Helfist said. They ran towards the ruin that Laura, Kruko and the Sisters were guarding.

“Hold up, wait,” Laura said. “A pod landed, and it sounded close. The marines might be overwhelmed.”

Wight grunted his approval.

“Yes, regrouping with reinforcements is an excellent idea,” Kemuel said. “Pool our group, strike at the heretics in force.”

“And get some fucking ammo,” Brenia said, throwing her empty mag away. “I’m running dry.”

“Okay, small groups, we move slowly through the ruins,” Helfist said.

Uncle Helfist and Wight left the ruin first, winding through the broken road that was littered with wrecked hulls of the traitor’s support column. The Claws waited a few seconds, then began to follow them at a distance, sticking to whatever shadows they could. Further through the city, the sounds of bolter fire rose to a crescendo.

“Excuse me, princess,” Brenia said, taking the chance to push past Laura. She growled at her, but by then, the two Sisters were hot on the heels of the Claws.

“Just let it go,” Kruko said. “Let her have her moods. Don’t get mad, you’re prettier when you’re happy. Just smile.”

Laura let Kruko go next, to try and get him to draw fire. Uncle Kemuel gently grabbed her shoulder.

“If he is a bother…”

“I can deal with him,” she said, patting her sword. Then she was out on the street, following at a distance. The battle sounds grew as they got closer. Eventually, she saw Wight waving her into a ruin. He pointed to the back of the building, where the wolves and Sisters were waiting. They were kneeling, waiting for them.

“Next block is where the action is,” Helfist said. “Whoever came here to pull our nuts out of the fire are hunting big game; they’ve got daemon engines on the other side of this block, and they’re gonna need help. We get into the shit of it, go after the daemons, and help give our saviors a hand. Once the engines are down, break away and get back to the shadows. Kemuel, you with us?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Stay close, stay alive, and the heroes of Fenris will be there with you. Laura, you want in?”

“Yea, I could get a little stretching in.”

“Ha! Your mother would be proud!”

“We shall stay back, provide fire to cover your retreat,” Cela said.

Laura didn’t know who she was gladder to be away from: Brenia or Kruko. She could still feel Brenia staring daggers at her, and Kruko staring at her ass.

They crossed through the ruined building, coming face to face with the new marine forces. Their armor was bright yellow, with a black-and-white checkered shoulder pad with a red heart in the dead center, and they were standing against three maulerfiends.

“Lamenters?” Kemuel said. “I thought they were dead.”

“Well, if they weren’t then, they will be now,” Laura said. “Those daemon engines will make quick work of them if they get any closer.”

“And we can’t have that now, can we?” Helfist said, pulling the power of Fenris to his fists. “The champions of the ice are with us.” He pushed the blessing to the Claws. With Laura in their ranks, she could feel the power of the blessing worming its way through her. It was warm. It was strong. It was nice.

“Let’s go before the ancients get tired. _For Russ and the Allfather!_ ”

The Claws broke from the ruins, screaming wildly as they charged the first maulerfiend. The charge was spirited, but disorganized. It didn’t matter, the damned daemons had to die before they cut the Lamenters apart. Uncle Helfist roared, charging the second fiend. He swung a wide haymaker, caving in part of the fiend’s chest. It howled and lashed out with an armored tentacle. Laura was mid-stride, unable to dodge.

“Laura!”

She flew back, the tentacle smashing her into the hull of a dead transport, like it was trying to grind her down. All the while, she felt her entire chest breaking. She could feel the white-hot pain, but it was a million miles away. She could feel the bones knitting, reforming from the blessing of Fenris. More than enough to keep her in the fight.

She brought her blade down on the offending tentacle with as much force as she could. Electricity arced, and the fiend howled. Uncle Helfist brought his augmented might around, striking the weakened armor and cracking it down the middle, revealing the twisted, damned flesh of the daemon. Laura pulled out her blaster, and blasted the sick flesh. It melted, boiled and burst, causing a chain reaction that led into the belly of the beast.

The maulerfiend screamed, then its armor seemed to bulge, warping and expanding as the chain reaction hit its inner heart. Blood and oil burst from the gaps in the armor, and it fell with a wet burst.

“Cover,” Kemuel called, dashing past her. Laura looked up. She forgot about the third maulerfiend. The Custodes were closing in on it, but the daemon was crying for blood. Laura had the distinct feeling that it was _her_ blood that it wanted.

The massive engine crashed into Uncle Kemuel and his brothers. The Custodes bowed, but remained upright, striking back with their spears. But the daemon engine moved on, closing in on her. The daemon’s three massive, armored, whip-like tentacles shot towards her, slow but powerful.

Laura was able to dodge two, but the third hit her dead center in the chest. It was strange to feel her ribs shatter for the second time in ten seconds. The second time must be the worst; the pain was almost unbearable.

But something deep inside her, that strange twisting in her gut, told her that this pain was nothing; she had experienced worse. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the massive claw that shattered her chest, and planted her feet. The maulerfiend pushed her across the ground, but she stayed upright, tearing up earth as it pushed her around, but kept a hold on the maulerfiend’s whip.

Uncle Kemuel brought his spear down, severing the tentacle/whip. The daemon howled, and Laura threw the severed limb aside and rushed forward, holding her sword at the ready. Her chest was on fire, but it was getting easier and easier to breathe with every breath, like the ribs were pulling themselves from her lungs and re-knitting themselves.

She launched herself at the maulerfiend, surrounded by the pack of wolves and Custodes. The daemon engine tried to lash out, but Helfist brought his entire might down on the engine, smashing it and cracking its hull wide open with his interlaced fists.

With the armor all but shattered, the Claws and Custodes were able to land their killing blows. Laura was but one of the many hits that brought the daemon engine low. It screamed and thrashed, but it hit the ground, no more.

Gasping for breath, she nearly fell over.

“Easy there,” Uncle Helfist said, catching her. “How—are you hurt? You have to be, are you?”

“My fucking chest is on fire.” But at the same time, that twisted feeling deep inside her knew worse pain. This was nothing.

“Laura, how are you alive?” Just hearing Kruko’s voice made her wish she wasn’t. “I saw that thing flatten you.”

“It must’ve been the blessings of Fenris,” she said.

“I…I guess that makes sense,” Kruko said. He gazed at the Claws, who’s armor was all but shredded. It was by the blessing and the blessing alone that they were alive. That, and more luck that they had any right to have. Wight was barely on his feet; his hands were on his knees, and he was gasping for breath.

“Well met, Space Wolves.” Laura looked at the approaching line of Lamenters. “And…Custodes. Forgive me, but we thought Custodes never leave the Emperor’s side.”

“Times change, and we must remain alert,” Kemuel said. “It is good to see a friendly face.”

“Indeed. I am Sergeant Invillus, of the Lamenters,” the sergeant said. “My thanks with the help with those damned engines.”

“It is an honor to fight alongside such a storied chapter,” Kemuel said. “Forgive me, but we had heard that the Lamenters were lost with all hands.”

Sergeant Invillus and his squad laughed bitterly.

“That marks the fourteenth time we have heard that,” he said. “News of our death is always greatly exaggerated.”

“Damn good thing, too,” Uncle Helfist said. “I’m Vermund Helfist. That pack leader there is Wight.”

“And who is this fearsome warrior who took the might of a maulerfiend?”

“Laura.”

“Just Laura?”

“Yea, just Laura right now,” she said, blinking back tears of pain.

“It seems that a new name is needed for you. Are those Sisters of Battle who are joining us?”

“It is,” Cala smiled. “My thanks, Lamenters. We are of the Ebon Chalice. I am Cela, and this is Brenia.”

“Thanks for the assist,” the scarred sister said.

“You are welcome, but the battle is just starting,” Invillus said. “The Black Legion is withdrawing, and we mean to harass them.”

“They’re withdrawing? You’re chasing them off with how many men?” Helfist demanded.

“They are withdrawing, it is true,” the Sergeant said. “And we have seventy-five men.”

“What, you mean in this attack force?” Helfist said.

“No, on the planet.”

“Bullshit.”

“We are the vanguard; we charged through the warp with reckless abandon. Following us is a Mechincus force, along with two Sisters’ battle groups.”

“Just seventy-five? You either got the biggest stones in the sector, or you’re fucked in the head,” Helfist said. “Either way, I like you. Need a hand? We might have only a few, but they’re good at what they do.”

“The more, the merrier. Although I would get your companion Laura to a hospiltar.”

“No, I’m fine,” she said, straightening up. Her back popped and cracked, loud enough for Kruko and the Claws to hear it and recoil. It sounded, and felt, like her bones were grinding to dust. But sweet relief was quick to follow, like she was setting her bones straight. “Just got lucky with that hit.”

“Then may the Emperor bless you. And may he grant us some of that blessing as well,” Invillus said.

“Let’s go kick ass,” Brenia said.

“Our orders were to push the traitors out along a parade route,” the Lamenter sergeant said. “Follow us, and we shall reap a great tally.”

Laura was about to follow them when Uncle Helfist stopped her.

 _“What the fuck was that?”_ He was speaking Juvik. _“That maulerfiend hit you dead center of the chest. You should be in pieces right now.”_

_“Your blessing held me together. It was the heroes of Fenris.”_

_“It_ wasn’t _the blessing,”_ he growled. _“I didn’t put enough muster on it; it only lasted about half as long as it normally did.”_

_“Really? I thought it would last a bit.”_

_“We’ve been fighting non-stop for a month, cut me some slack, will you?”_ He said. _“That blessing didn’t last passed the first maulerfiend.”_

Laura’s heart caught in her chest. She very nearly died. The realization sent chills down her spine, but somehow, she was used to it. Like it was an old trick.

 _“I…I don’t know,”_ she mumbled. She looked down at her carapace. It was caved in, shattered beyond mending. Uncle Croan might have made it to last, but against a daemon engine, it could only do so much.

Helfist cursed.

 _“Dammit, we don’t have time for this,”_ he said. _“When we get back, we’re checking you out. You’ve become different.”_

_“Tell me something I don’t know.”_


	29. The Siege of Dimmimar

Aevar shielded his eyes as he took his first step outside of the monastery in just over a month.

“Damn, feels good to breathe some fresh air,” he said.

“Fekke of a long time comin’,” Maeva said. “If only there wasn’t any dust ‘n shit cloggin’ it up.”

“It gives it character.”

“Blasphemer.” Aevar looked out, seeing Lynia approaching him, flanked by her honor guards. “Good to see you remember what the sun looks like.”

“Being the best at making shit tends to chain me to the forge,” he laughed. “But I heard the most interesting news, and I wanted to get it straight from the source. Is it true the Black Legion is withdrawing?”

“That they are,” the Canoness smiled, her lopsided scars twisting with her sips. “And we have only received a token reinforcement.”

“They lost their balls at th’ sight a new guys?” Maeva laughed.

“Hardly,” Aevar said. “The Despoiler must’ve been counting on catching us alone, and off-guard. Any reinforcements, no matter how small, would tell him that more is on the way. It’s a tactical retreat, nothing more.”

“He’s just fekken’ scared.”

“I’m sure he never suspected on us holding out this long,” Lynia smiled. “It was a blessing from the Emperor that Captain Agostina was able to reach us before the Despoiler did.”

“Yea, damn lucky,” Aevar mumbled. “Too damn lucky.”

“It is not luck, but rather a blessing,” Lynia said. “Now, why have you left the forge?”

“Had to stretch my legs before this was all over,” he said. “That, and give my deepest thanks to our saviors.”

“Then you’re in luck. The Black Legion might be retreating, but there’s still plenty of war to be had,” Lynia said. “Come with us, we’ll get you to the front.”

Aevar un-slung Katla from his back and followed the Sisters, Maeva at his heels.

“Make sure those axes don’t get stuck in anything,” he told her.

“Ha-fuckin’-ha,” Maeva growled, holding her two axes tight in her hands. “Ya get an arm hacked off by a warboss _one time,_ an’ everyone holds it over yer heard.”

“It was a nob, not a warboss.”

“Fekken’ spoil sport.”

They traveled down the trench line, following cheering Sisters as they pushed forward. Overhead, in the ruins, the guns of the Mechanicus never stopped firing.

“Hound them, sisters,” Lynia yelled. “Show them the price for trying to desecrate our world.”

The sounds of battle increased, and Aevar finally saw the front.

“Dammit all, do I miss this,” he grinned, his two hearts beating in rhythm. Just as they were approaching the very front lines, he saw a green giant who was blasting heretics with a plasma pistol. His servo arms carried his massive broadsword. “Croan, you getting in on this, too?”

“Of course,” the Salamander said. He wore his helm, but Aevar could hear the smile in his voice. “Nearly a full month of siege work, and now we get to go on the offensive. How can I _not_ miss this?”

“Knew I liked you for some reason,” Aevar laughed. “Come on! Back to war!”

Having been out of battle for so long, getting the chance to fight again made him feel like a Claw again. Aevar vaulted the trench, and began charging towards the retreating line of the heretics. Behind him, he could hear the roar of the Sisters as they broke with him.

Ahead, the traitors were trying to make a valiant stand as they withdrew. Bolts hit Aevar’s armor, but the thick plates easily pushed the incoming fire aside. Laughing, Aevar returned fire with Iounn. The bolt pistol clattered in his hand, and one heretic fell, a bolt in his eye.

“The wolves are among you!” He bellowed as he charged into the fray. The heretics fought back, but he parried with Katla’s shaft, and brought the massive hammer around. The air cracked, and heretics were thrown about, broken. Second later, Croan was at his side, and the buzz of chainswords marked the presence of the Sisters.

“We fight for the Emperor,” they screamed, laying their fury upon the traitors.

Aevar smashed another heretic to meaty chunks, and from his back Maeva dashed in. With her cybernetic arm augmenting her strength, she was able to hack a head clean from the neck.

“Try ta stick tha’, bastard,” she laughed.

“Fall back,” the traitors called. “Hold the loyalists here.”

Ahead of them, a daemon engine growled. It was a massive defiler, armed to the teeth with heavy weapons. Aevar pulled Maeva back, just as a blast from the autocannon strafed them. The rounds bounced off his armor, but he could feel their strength even through the plating. It was good that it held; such force could tear him limb from limb.

“Stay back here,” he said. “Croan, we’re taking that thing down.”

“Right with you, brother,” the Salamander roared.

“Sisters, covering fire.”

Bolts flew overhead as they charged forward. The defiler tried to stop them by unloading its arsenal on them, but all of the snap shots went wide. Croan dashed ahead, braving the torrents of flames that it spat out.

“You call that fire?” He laughed. “Let me show you true radiance.”

He brought his sword down point first on the daemon engine. It pierced the damned hide, and his servo-arms began tearing into the fragile joints, cutting connection tubes and linear drives. Aevar jumped onto one of the daemon’s legs, and then launched himself at the daemon’s head, Katla ready to swing.

_“For Russ and the Allfather!”_

The daemon howled as its face was shattered. He landed on the daemon’s chassis, and hit it again. Against the combined might of both tech marines, the daemon engine fell to the ground, finally dead.

“For the Emperor,” Croan yelled, holding his sword high.

“For the Emperor,” the Sisters repeated.

“Damn, did that feel good,” Aevar laughed, jumping to the ground.

“Yes, it is good to be back in battle. Where are the next ones?”

“Fuck, the defiler was to slow us down,” Aevar spat, looking ahead. The traitor’s lines were a block away, and gaining momentum. “Come on, after them.”

The Sisters shot as they ran, but the heretics were in full retreat. From one of the side-streets came a new group of Space Marines, armored entirely in yellow, and they laid into the traitors. But even the new group couldn’t catch them; for each heretic they shot, the rest moved faster.

“Friendlies down range,” Lynia called. “Watch your fire, sisters.”

The traitors were running, clamoring to get onboard any transport they could find as they went. Eventually, each cursed Rhino and damned Land Raider was filled with retreating traitors, and they ground away, moving faster and faster.

“Damn, what I wouldn’t give for an orbital bombardment,” Aevar spat.

“Hold, sisters,” Lynia said as they came upon the yellow-armored marines. “I am Canoness Lynia, of the Order of the Valorous Heart. Whom may you be?”

“We are the Lamenters,” the lead sergeant replied. “We are answering your cry for help.”

“How many men do you have?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Seventy-fuckin’-five?” Maeva said. “An’ ya came here ta fight?”

“You got some stones, sergeant,” Aevar said. “And we owe you for that.”

“It is merely our duty which we do,” the Lamenter said. “Please, no thanks is necessary. We simply wish to regain the honor of our Chapter.”

“You said you are the Lamenters?” Croan said. “You are of the Cursed Founding, are you not?”

“’Cursed Founding?’ Fuck that noise,” Aevar said. “You really pulled our nuts out of the fire. I don’t care how cursed you are or how piss-poor your wyrd is, I’m making you some top-grade shit for this.”

“Thank you, but our Chapter is on the verge of dying. Again,” the Lamenter said. “If there is one thing that we need, it is to replenish our numbers.”

“Well, if you’re gonna all die out, you’re gonna die as the most heavily armed bastards in the galaxy,” Aevar said. “And I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Many thanks, tech marine.”

“Not just any tech marine, I’m the Blasphemer. And let me tell you, I got some good things I can crank out here.”

“You are…? Then perhaps we shall take your weapons. We are under-funded as it is.”

“Not for long you are. Now, are there any more fucking heretics to kill? I still got a few kinks in my back I’d like to work out.”

 

* * *

 

Agostina stood on the bridge of the _Johnathan_. The debris of the Sister’s ships floated in the void around Dimimmar, a testament to the void battle one-month prior. But of the last traitor ships were fleeing. All from the sight of one ship and a rogue trader.

“To think the Black Legion would run so easily,” Saradas said.

“It wasn’t this force, but the promise of more to follow,” she said. “This was the best time to run, and they took it.”

They watched the Lamenter’s battered ship float closer to the planet, going into orbit.

“Do you think they’ll throw a feast down there?” She asked.

“I’ll be surprised if they aren’t feasting right now.”

  

* * *

 

 

The gibbering spawns were an abomination to nature. Uncle Kemuel and his Custode brothers were parrying the mad attacks of the spawn. They were just keeping the spawns at bay, but Laura was faster than either of them. Her blade dipped in and out of the mutant’s defenses, cutting them with incredible ease.

One tried to break away, but its rubber-like flesh was pounded by bolts from the Sisters of Battle, blowing pieces of them off with incredible ease.

“Such is the fate of the heretic,” Brenia spat, ejecting her spent magazine. “Eat shit in Hell!”

“That appears to be the last of them,” Uncle Kemuel said, dealing the coup de grace to a fell spawn.

“Damn, where are we?” Laura asked. Suddenly she realized how tired she was. “We must be on the outskirts of the hive city; I actually see signs of nature.”

“Looks like it,” Helfist said, cautiously advancing on the copses. Even in death, they still twitched. “Smells like burning prometheum, and you can tell from the blast marks ships either landed here, or took off.”

“Those heretics beat a quick retreat,” a Claw laughed. “ _Ojor va Russ!_ ”

“ _Ojor va Russ,_ ” the remaining Claw chanted. They were spirited, but anyone could hear the exhaustion in their voices.

“Well, look at that, we might not have missed the party after all,” Helfist said, pointing to the distance. “Hey, Lamenters! You gonna keep up or what?”

“It is pointless to advance so recklessly,” the Lamenters’ sergeant said. His group of marines were advancing with caution, bolters at the ready. “Reckless advancing will lead to a shallow grave.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine,” Laura said.

“Bad things happen to us,” the sergeant replied. “Caution has been our greatest ally.”

“Well, you’re with us now, so we’ll scare off any bad wyrd or malefactorum,” Helfist said. “Come on, you want to miss this party?”

“It looks like someone has beaten us to the ‘party,’” Cela said, pointing in the distance. The yellow armor of the Lamenters were breaking from the city, spreading out to lay down fire. Three figures in the distance were charging; Laura could see that it was her Uncle Aevar and Croan, and her mother.

“Let us join them,” Kemuel said. “Come, it shall make the walk back better.”

Wight grunted, and led the way over to the group of Lamenters that drove the Despoiler off. The Claws, normally overenthusiastic, were just as exhausted as Laura felt, and didn’t race ahead.

“Damn, can’t believe this is over.” Laura tried not to groan as Kruko fell in beside her. “Can you imagine the party we’ll be throwing to celebrate?”

“I’ve a hard time seeing the Sisters give up that much communion wine,” she said dryly.

“Come on, you can’t be happy for once?” He said. “You can’t be so dull all the time, you have to live a little. Can you do that for me?”

She could cut him in half…this was war; accidents happened.

“Look who returns!” Laura was surprised to see Aunt Lynia leading the group. She broke from them to walk towards her.

“Canoness,” Cela said. As Lynia approached, she kneeled. After a second, Brenia followed suit. “We are the last surviving members of the Ebon Chalice, your grace. What are our orders?”

“It’s good to know that members of your order have survived,” Lynia smiled.

“We are glad some of our Sisters have survived,” Croan said, approaching with Aevar and Maeva. His helmet was on, but Laura could tell that he was staring at her. “By Vulkan’s hammer, what happened to my armor?”

“’Your armor?’” Kruko asked. “I thought you said your uncle made your armor. Wait, a Tech Marine made your armor? This is your uncle?!”

“One of them,” Laura said. Brenia was still kneeling, but Laura could see her sneer.

 _Just a fucking special, pretty princess._ Laura could practically read her mind.

“Yea, just one uncle out of a whole pack,” Aevar said. He was covered in blood, and most of it didn’t seem human. “Laura, glad to know you survived.”

“An’ fuckin’ grew,” Maeva said, craning her neck just to look at her.

“Mom, can we not…?”

“Yea, bet yer real tired. Come, we’ll get a feast started,” Maeva smiled. “We kicked th’ Black Legion right ‘tween th’ legs! Sent ‘em crawlin’ home! Think a th’ stories we got from this!”

“Sisters, send word,” Lynia ordered. “Ring the bells, or whatever bells that have survived the fight. We have drove the Black Legion back, and the Emperor’s light remains on Dimmimar. Tonight, we feast on whatever is left of our stocks.”

The Sisters cheered, firing their bolters into the air. The Claws were quick to join, and the Lamenters re-grouped, moving off.

“Just where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Aevar demanded.

“We have our ships to return to,” the lead sergeant said. “We must—“

“Bullshit, you’re our fucking heroes,” he grinned. “You’ll take the spot of honor tonight, all of you! Come on!”

“I—we…”

“What, not used to getting thanked or something?”

“To tell the truth, no.”

“Well, all that changes tonight. The Sons of Russ will show you how thankful we can be! I’ll be making new armor and weapons for the whole lot of you!”

The Lamenters, suddenly unsure of the praise they were getting, hesitantly following the Vlka. The Claws egged them on, tugging at their pauldrons, singing battle-hymns in an effort to loosen them up. The Sisters followed, singing their own chats and hymns. Laura waited until Cela, Brenia and Kruko were a few paces away before going up to Croan.

“What’s going on with me?” She asked.

“You have become a true warrior,” he said.

“Not what I fucking meant!” She said. “I’ve…come on, you can see that I’m different.”

“Finally hit tha’ growth spurt, yea?” Her mom smiled. “Really gotta look up ta ya now.”

“What’s going on with me? Things are different, strange. Like, like something’s been let go and I’m totally different.”

Uncle Croan shook his head.

“We never truly expected this to happen,” he said sadly.

“Expect what to happen?”

“We’ll tell ya,” Maeva said. “Ya got a right ta know. But not now; gotta make sure th’ heretics are outta th’ system an’ everythin’s safe.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“It is not that simple,” Croan said, shaking his head. “It is just is not that simple.”

 

* * *

 

Bells were ringing throughout the city. Every temple that survived with their bells intact were making as much noise as possible. Aevar smiled. As they got closer and closer to the temple, more and more of the fleeing civilians were being ushered from their makeshift, underground bunkers to fill the streets with their cheering.

Good thing, too; it was getting crowded down there. Many of the civilians were using simple sheets as makeshift walls for privacy.

“I never thought we’d see the end of this,” Lynia sighed. “Aevar…”

“What, not ‘Blasphemer?’”

“Not now,” the old canoness smiled. “Today, now, you are not the Blasphemer, but my good, close friend.”

“You flatter me, Lynia,” he smiled back.

“Not ‘you old bat?’”

“Unless you like that name.”

“Only when you’re the one using it.” Lynia paused as they walked back. Sisters were cheering, hugging each other, glad to be alive. “Tell me, and be honest; how close were we to losing? It was…tense. Oh, Emperor, it was _beyond_ tense. The heretics were beating at our doors before they pulled back. But how close were we from actually losing?”

“You want an inconvenient truth, or a reassuring lie?”

“The truth, please.”

“I gotta warn you, the truth will not set you free,” he said. “Take it from me, I’ve probably got the best experience in the galaxy with that.”

“Damn that, I want to know.”

“Knew I liked you for a reason,” he grinned sadly. “It was closer that you’d ever like to see. We were running on fumes down there.”

“What were we running short on?”

“On fucking everything,” he said. “We were a few days away from passing out burned rats and rotten potatoes as rations.”

“So we would have starved a bit. Hard, yes, but hardly upsetting. We still had your forge work.”

“Yea, only we haven’t been doing forge work for nearly two weeks.”

That got Lynia to stop.

“You’re joking! The hammers of the forge were never ending; you were turning out Mechanicus robots and battle servitors every day!”

“At the beginning, yes,” he said, “but what were we spitting out after the two-week mark?”

“Ammunition. Boxes and boxes of ammunition.”

“’Cus that’s pretty much all we had left,” he said. “We ran out of supplies to make the Mechanicus’ robots after the first week. You ever wonder why servitors were suddenly scarce? We ran out of materials to make them at week two. Since then, we could only spit out ammunition. Anything else was too intensive to make. Shit, we turned to smelting hammers and anvils just to make bolt rounds.”

“But the forge was always working. You never stopped.”

“Had to keep the magick alive,” he grinned, wiggling his fingers like it was some parlor trick. “Ever since the second week, when we stopped making robots, we set up servitors and tech priests to just wail away at anvils.”

“But why?”

“’Cus you could hear the damn things halfway through the mountain, especially the rooms we dug out and excavated for the civilians. Imagine the panic if they heard the forge go quiet; nothing getting made, all hope is lost. So, we kept on pumping out ammo. Eventually, we had to cut down on using the bolt powder to stretch everything out. We were a day away from using them, too.”

“You made bad munitions?!”

“Don’t worry, we marked every single one of them we made. It’ll be easy to find them and make ‘em the right way, once we have the stuff for it.”

“How could you give us bad munitions?” She snapped, trying to keep her voice quiet. Not that she had to; with the noise of the cheering, she was drowned out.

“Better that then have everyone realize we’re pretty much out of anything.”

Lynia gazed at the crowd of cheering civilians. Was it worth it? She had to think of the entire planet, not just her own Sisters and charges.

“I think I’ll try some of that Fenrisian ale you got squirreled away.”

“Wait, what? Who are you and what did you do with Lynia?”

“I’m sorry, but having faced down the Black Legion and come within inches of eating boots and shooting dud rounds has scared me,” she said. “As your wolves are fond of saying, I could use something to take the edge off.”

“Get in line, sister,” Aevar laughed, wrapping an arm around her.

 

* * *

 

Dylena was one of the many faces cheering as the Sisters of Battle began returning to the monastery. With them were yellow-armored Marines, the remaining wolves of Fenris, local PDF troopers, and a tall, dark skinned woman. The woman was taller than the Sisters and the PDF troopers, absolutely towered over them. She was about the same size as the Space Marines.

Her heart caught in her throat; it couldn’t be. Dylena pushed her way through the crowd, trying to get a better look. She came to a ruined street light, and climbed it up a few feet up.

The woman…it _was_ Laura. She had gotten tall, and despite the dirt and grime, there was a radiant beauty to her, like a veil was lifted and her true self was exposed. And that true self was powerful; Dylena could feel it from where she stood.

Dylena could feel it in her bones; Laura had reached her full potential. That meant that it was time. Every adjustment had been made, every push was subtle enough to reach this conclusion, the preferred outcome. Out of the millions of possible futures, this is the one that was finally brought about.

Jumping down from the streetlight, Dylena made her way through the crowd, back towards the lower levels of the monastery. Her heart was pounding in her chest. After all this time, it had finally come.

Dylena only had the memories of her childhood, but they were burned into her head so she could never forget. She knew what had to be done, and where to go to return. But did she want to? This was her home now. Laura was her friend. She was more than her friend, she was…she was special to her.

Both of them, the two freaks.

But it didn’t matter. Their brief time together was just that; brief. It was never meant to last.

She ran back to her old chambers, the rooms they stayed in as part of their schooling. It wasn’t to gather any belongings; not only were all of her things moved down below into the hastily excavated tunnels, but she already had all that she needed. She walked back to the room because it was the starting point.

The instructions burned to her brain were clear to her. Starting from their chambers, she walked out, counting her steps, taking the correct turns at the right intervals. All the while, she rubbed the small charm bracelet on her wrist, one of the very few reminders of her heritage. Eventually, she came to a small room, one of the many that was empty, unused and forgotten.

Dylena unclasped her bracelet and pulled the charms apart. Each charm revealed a fine piece of wraithbone chalk. She might be too human, but she could feel a small tug of power radiating from it. Using the chalk, she began tracing a pattern on the wall, one of the many things that was imprinted in her, making it impossible to forget.

As she worked, she couldn’t help but think: did she want to leave? Laura was the only thing worth staying for, but once Laura found out what she was, what she was here to do, everything would change. Everyone was taught to hate anything that was different; violently, blindly and passionately. Laura was no exception. If anything, she hated _more_ passionately than anyone else; her Space Marine uncles had seen to that. This was no world Dylena could live in.

When she finished, Dylena put the chalk back into her bracelet, stepped back, and waited. She could hear the echoing noises of celebration coming from outside the monastery; the small room was close to the lowest level, closest to the street. Dylena stood, waiting nervously.

Minutes ticked by. Something was supposed to happen by now. Could they have forgotten? Could she have left her here, all alone?

Dylena blinked; reality was warping. The wall seemed to shimmer, then bent. It spun, pulling further and further back, revealing a black opening to somewhere. Out of that black opening came a tall, grand figure. Wearing black armor with graceful white accents and a tall helmet, the figure held a staff, and a strange, ancient pistol.

 _“Identify yourself,”_ the tall figure said. It spoke gently, but there was no mistake; it was a harsh command, and in an alien language.

 _“’After time adrift among open stars,’”_ Dylena spoke flawlessly in her mother, alien, tongue, _“’Along tides of light and through shoals of dust, I will return to where I began.’”_

The tall figure visibly relaxed. A hand pulled the helmet off, revealing a woman’s face. It was long and graceful, much like Dylena’s own face. Her hair was golden, just as her own. Dylena had not seen her since she was a toddler, but the face was so familiar. So familiar it made her want to cry.

 _“My daughter,”_ the Eldar farseer said, tears welling in her eyes, _“you’ve returned to me.”_

She ran into her mother’s arms.

 _“Oh, my beautiful, beautiful daughter,”_ her mother cried. _“We have missed you so.”_

_“Is…is father…”_

_“No, he has passed on to his own afterlife,”_ her mother said. _“The shortness of the human life…it is not often that it is a tragedy, but this is this time.”_ Her mother dried her eyes. _“It is done?”_

 _“Yes, it is,”_ Dylena said. _“Adjustments were made. Laura is on the right path.”_

_“Then maybe our salvation may yet come about. Laura will sit upon the Golden Throne, and then, maybe humanity can be the one to pay the butcher’s bill instead of the Eldar. Maybe we can finally escape the clutches of She Who Thirsts by giving her another victim.”_

“Dylena? Hello?”

The voice made Dylena freeze. It was Laura.

“You here? Come on, a few of the Sisters saw you heading this way. I want to see you.”

 _“Is that her?”_ Her mother asked.

_“It is.”_

_“We must be away. The webway here is but a temporary opening, and we cannot risk staying any longer. It is already a beacon to daemons, and the mon-keigh might find us.”_

Dylena was about to walk into the strange, black-yet-glowing entrance when heavy footfalls rounded the corner.

“Dylena?”

Laura couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her friend, Dylena, was with an Eldar witch.

“What are you doing?” Laura asked.

The witch said something in their strange xenos language, and raised her hands at her. Laura could feel the pull of reality, the gathering of energy; the witch was trying to curse her.

The Grey Knights were relentless in their training, and had pressed such ruthless training onto her. With practiced ease, she mentally reached out and shut the gates of the immaterium with as much force as she could muster.

The Eldar witch recoiled at the might of her attack, but before Laura could draw her pistol, Dylena gracefully stepped between her and the witch, arms held wide like it was a movement she had been planning and rehearsing to utter perfection.

“Dylena, get out of the way,” she barked.

“I can’t.”

“But…what is this? She’s trying to take you.”

“No, I’m leaving with her.”

Laura stared at her oldest, her only, friend.

Dylena pulled her hair back, showing her omnipresent, eagle winged earrings.

“We have one thing in common, Laura,” she said, removing them. With the earrings in her hands, she tilted her head. Both of her ears were elongated, coming to fine, graceful points.

They were the ears of the Eldar.

“We’re both different,” she said, tearing up. “Freaks; outsiders. I’m sorry, but I have my people to go back to. And you have yours.”

Her volkite pistol in her hand suddenly weighted a ton. Laura couldn’t bring herself to pull the trigger.

“But…”

Dylena placed the earrings on the ground. She and the Eldar walked back to the strange portal.

“But I thought we could be freaks together.”

They disappeared into the strange ether, and the opening closed behind them, leaving only a solid wall with strange chalk markings on it. Feet pounded the ground from around the corner.

“What the shit is this?” Uncle Helfist demanded. Wight was with him. “Smells of fucking malefactorum and…” He sniffed at the air. “And xenos. Where are they?”

“She’s gone,” Laura mumbled.

“Who?”

“Dylena.”

“Dylena? You mean the graceful, pretty girl who always smells funny?”

She picked up the two earrings from the ground. Uncle Helfist grabbed one, sniffing it.

“Yea, these are hers,” he said. “Dammit, what’s that fucking smell…?”

“Eldar,” she mumbled.

“Eldar? Yea, now that you mention it, it does smells like them. But it’s mostly human, I think.”

“Girl was Eldar?” Wight asked.

“I think we could smell a full-blooded fucking Eldar,” Helfist growled, giving her the earring back. He sniffed the air. “She must’ve been something; a half-breed maybe? But one of those witches _was_ here. What the fuck were they doing here?”

Laura held onto the two earrings like her life depended on it. Suddenly, she felt painfully alone.

 

* * *

 

“Eldar witches?” Aunt Lynia cursed. “Here? On a Shrine World of the Emperor?”

Her room was crowded. Parsef and Aunt Geist were there, along with her uncles Kemuel, Aevar, Helfist, Croan, Legato and her mom, Mavea. Uncle-Sergeant Julas was leaning against a wall with his arm still missing; he was cradling the stump. Laura sat in front of her Aunt’s desk, trying not to curl up. She held Dylena’s earrings in her hands.

“Aye, they were fucking here,” Uncle Helfist spat. “The damn air reeked of them.”

“How could xenos grow so close to us?” Aunt Lynia demanded. “Laura, what did that xenos traitor Dylena tell you?”

“You mean the pretty girl that always smelled funny?” Uncle Aevar asked.

“The very one,” Uncle Helfist said. “Think that was what it was? Some fucking xenos blood that made her smell a bit off?”

“Only thing I can think of.”

“Her name is Dylena,” Laura mumbled. “And she’s my friend. She said she was sorry.”

“She is a xenos witch, a threat to humanity,” her aunt railed.

“This is a massive breach in our security,” Julas said from the back of the room. “If her scent can fool even a Space Wolf, she can breech any planet she is placed on.”

“Her damn scent never fooled us,” Helfist growled, his pride injured. “We’ve just never smelled a damn half-human half-xenos witch before. Until now, we never knew such a thing was possible!”

“We’ll put a warning out for her,” Aunt Lynia vowed. “She’ll not be able to show her face on any planet that holds the Emperor’s faith in their heart.”

Laura’s stomach rolled at the very mention of ‘faith.’

“I’m more curious about Laura,” Parsef said. “I’m wondering why she grew so much.”

Laura could feel all eyes shift on her. Even though she was sitting, she was almost as tall as Parsef and Aunt Lynia. She kept playing with her Dylena’s earrings. Nothing seem real.

“It could be no curse, that can be sure,” she heard Uncle Kemuel say. “No curse would cause a person to grow, to become stronger than an Angel of Death, and preternaturally quick.”

“Legato, you’re a genetor of reputed degree,” Aunt Lynia said. “What is causing this…this strange growth?”

Laura looked up from the earrings. Her thin, stick of an uncle nervously stood.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Her genes are perfectly normal.”

“Bullshit,” Uncle Helfist said. “What could make her tougher than a Vlka?”

“It…it is ‘that,’” he said.

“’That?’” Uncle Helfist gave him a questioning look. Uncle Legato returned his gaze. Helfist looked to Aevar, who only nodded.

The color suddenly drained from Uncle Helfist’s face.

“No, no, no…not ‘that.’ You said ‘that’ didn’t work!”

“What is ‘that?’” Aunt Lynia demanded.

“You said we weren’t doing ‘that!’” Uncle Helfist’s eyes were wide, his hand was shaking, and suddenly he was pointing at her. In his off-hand, he thumbed the runes that dangled from his neck. Laura could smell the panic on him, she could hear his twin hearts slamming in his chest. What had gotten Uncle Helfist so scared? “You said we shouldn’t worry about ‘that!’”

“Blasphemer, if you value your life, you’ll tell us what ‘this’ project is,” Parsef snarled. “Geist, at the ready.”

“What’s this project you are talking about?” Aunt Lynia hissed. “Answer me, Blasphemer.”

Laura suddenly realized that the only ones in the room who were anywhere close to being at ease were her family. Uncle Aevar was leaning back in his chair, Uncle Croan stood at ease, Uncle Legato was a bundle of nerves, yes, but he still stood tall. And her mother…her mother was staring at her, pain in her eyes.

“If I could, I’d ‘ve never let this happen,” she said. “Ya gotta know tha’, yea? After all this shit goes down, just know tha’ I woulda paid _any_ price ta never let this happen, an’ tha’ I love ya more ‘n life itself. Ya hear me?”

Her mother took a second to compose herself.

“Yer…I ain’t yer mom,” she said, her voice breaking. “Not yer real mom, anyhow. I mean, I pushed ya out, ‘n tha’s ‘bout it.”

“What?!” Aunt Geist yelled.

“Just when I thought only her father’s heritage was of unknown origins,” Parsef said, “now I have to worry about the _mother’s_ as well? If you aren’t the real parent, then who is?”

“Laura…she doesn’t have real parents,” Legato stammered.

“She is a clone,” Croan said.

“An abomination?” Parsef hissed.

“Oh, ya mean an’ abomination like Geist?” Her mom spat back.

“Geist is the exception—“

“Yea, fancy tha’.”

“Every other clone has been a mad, twisted parody of the subject!” Parsef yelled.

“Every other clone has been made and raised by chaos,” Aevar replied. “Need proof? Look at Geist. Krieg is essentially an army of clones; they’re not raised in Chaos, and they turn out just fine. And like them, Laura has never touched Chaos. That puts her a cut above the others you hold up.”

“Then who is she made a clone of?” Aunt Lynia demanded. “And why was this xenos witch so interested in her?”

“Well, they got a pretty damn good reason to be interested in her, considering she’s a clone of the Emperor.”

A massive clash went up just behind Laura. Uncle Kemuel dropped his spear.

“A clone of the Emperor?!” He shouted.

“Must have an echo in here,” ‘Uncle’ Aevar chuckled.

“You, no, this isn’t real,” Laura said. It felt like the floor was pulled out from under her.

“Laura, please,” Aevar said. “I…we never wanted this—“

“I fucking knew it!” Parsef roared. “I trusted you, and you bring this abomination into our world, some sick, twisted experiment that traitors have tried to accomplish? Geist, kill that thing!”

Laura didn’t think she could move, but years of training under the assassin made her leap to her feet, away from her assassin aunt. But Aunt Geist didn’t move a muscle. It was like she didn’t know what to do.

“You do that, you’ll probably damn the Imperium to destruction,” Aevar said.

“You lie, heretic,” Parsef snarled.

“Honest truth,” he said, holding his hands up. “If we’re talking about secrets, might as well tell you that the Golden Throne is failing. We took an oath to the High Lords, the Mechanicus and the Custodes to never tell you, but this seems like as good a time as any to break that.”

“Enough of your lies,” Aunt Lynia snapped. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “You lie, you blaspheme, you…you deceive _everyone,_ everyone who’s ever _cared_ about you, all to fit your crooked will!”

“The Blasphemer is right,” Kemuel said, cautiously kneeling to regain his spear.

_“What?”_

It was hard to know who spoke first; Parsef, Lynia and Julas all seemed to share one voice.

“It is as they say, the Golden Throne is failing. It is why the Blasphemer and his tech marine brothers were summoned to Terra.”

“But…but that is impossible,” Aunt Lynia stammered. She stood ram-rod straight with shock, trying to comprehend what was happening, and failing. “It was built by His holy hands. It cannot fail!”

Laura’s stomach roiled at that word, at that phrase.

“The Golden Throne is His work, but it was left in the hands of mere mortals, of us who _are_ fallible,” Kemuel said. “We have failed to maintain it. How could we? No one could fathom what the Emperor knows.”

“We couldn’t fix the damn thing,” Aevar said. “Not that we didn’t try. Trust me, we all pounded our heads against it for a fucking great year, and got nowhere. _Less_ than nowhere. But I thought maybe we could…shit, I don’t know what I was thinking.

“A Grey Knight read the Emperor’s Tarot to me. Three cards sealed my fate: ‘hope, from a discovery, will lead to a champion.’ I thought I was that champion, but I can barely do shit for dick.”

“You’re the Blasphemer, the re-creator of lost relics,” Aunt Lynia sputtered. “You…you cloned the Emperor.”

“Aye, I had a hand in that, but nearly all of the damn time, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “I throw shit against a wall and try not to act surprised when it works. Remember the _Stanchion of Fall_? I took a shit-load of ideas that didn’t work out in miniature, scaled them up ‘till they were fucking huge, and holy shit, wouldn’t you know it, it actually worked! The idea to clone the Emperor was a mad gambit that somehow paid off.

“I’m getting better at figuring out why it’s working, sure, but I have no idea most of the time; I’m just an idiot savant, making miracles by pounding crap together. I can’t be that champion; that champion should be able to know what they’re fucking doing. But then I realized that the reading, ‘discovery will lead to a champion,’ was meant literally.

“That champion is Laura. That discovery was when Maeva brought this up, to clone the Emperor. And the hope is what we’re all running on, because everyone knows what happens when the Emperor dies. Can we all at least agree that the Emperor _can’t_ be allowed to die?”

Just hearing that made Laura’s skin crawl, like she had to take a shower, or get up and move. Is that all she was? An experiment? A means to an end?

“That would be the true End Times,” Legato said. “Daemons, everywhere, feasting on humans. We can’t have that. We couldn’t have that.”

Was her entire life planned out, all for _this?_

“That is what dragged you down this path of damnation?” Julas demanded. “Why was she even…created? Born?”

“No one can talk to the Emperor,” Aevar said. “He’s too powerful. I thought that, if we cloned him, maybe that clone would have a fragment of his power, enough to truly talk to him and not have to use the Tarot, then maybe we can fix that damn Throne and keep the Imperium spinning.”

“Laura _is_ an exceptionally talented psyker,” Aunt Geist said.

“Druid,” Helfist corrected.

“Yea, she fuckin’ scared Grey Knights when she was a babe, yea?” Maeva added. “Tha’s power, ain’t it? Think she could talk ta th’ Allfather?”

“It…no, it can’t be,” Parsef said. “ _No one_ can talk to the Emperor.”

The twisting in her gut returned; it was impatience. They were so close to something, but from what? Finding out her entire life was a lie, a damned experiment? Is this all she was good for, is this all she could aspire to? A replacement Emperor, an emperor by proxy?

“If she was truly the progeny…clone, of the Emperor, she should be able to hear His holy voice, shouldn’t she?” Aunt Lynia asked. Laura’s gut twisted. “The Emperor has spoken to others in the past, showing them visions, blessings. L-Laura, have you, have you ever…?”

“Heard voices? No, never.” She said. Then it hit her. “Revelation.”

Her stomach flipped; Revelation was right.

“What?” Julas asked.

“It was Revelation,” she said, her heart pounding. “It was the Emperor. Ever since I was a girl, I could tell what he was feeling.”

“Wait, ya mean yer imaginary friend?” Maeva asked. “Th’ stuffed pup yer Uncle made ya?”

“Yes, that had to be the Emperor.”

The feeling in her gut was dancing around with joy.

“He was telling me things, well, making me feel things,” she said. “He never spoke, but I knew what he was feeling. Uncle-Sergeant Julas, your history lessons, I…when I told you things felt wrong, that things didn’t happen the way you said they did, it was him, Revelation. I had the feeling in my gut that they didn’t match up. That was him.”

“The Emperor was able to disguise himself from the Primarchs and most mortals,” Kemuel said. “It is fully possible he could have somehow sent this knowledge to…to Laura. It would also explain how she could hide herself from other psykers.”

“Then let’s put this to the test,” Parsef said.

“Inquisitor, you must _never_ test the God-Emperor,” Aunt Lynia warned.

Laura’s stomach heaved; she _hated_ that name. Hated, hated, hated!!

“No, Aunt Lynia, it’s fine,” she said. “I feel that he wouldn’t mind.”

And it was the truth. The feeling in her stomach was begging to be tested.

Aunt Lynia pulled a deck of tarot cards, and began shuffling them like mad. Her aunt was looking for a level of safety, of security, of _anything_ familiar.

“Draw the cards,” she told Parsef. “You…Laura, please, read them to us before they are drawn.”

The first card was drawn. Parsef kept it hidden.

“This, it feels like something new,” she said, trying to comprehend what the feeling was. “Something…awe inspiring. Of wonder.”

The card was flipped, and it was of the Eye of Terror. She could see a fleet of ships floating at the top of the card; the card was upside-down, meaning the inverse of what it stood for.

“I’ve seen that before,” Aevar said, looking over at the card. “It means ‘discovery.’”

“The awe of a discovery,” Aunt Lynia breathed. “You…this is right.”

Parsef drew another card, waiting for Laura. Suddenly she was itching to move. She had stood still for so long, something had to change. She had to get up and get out.

“Moving? Action? I just feel restless.”

Parsef placed the card down on the desk. It was a picture of a Space Marine Captain, pointing his sword at some unseen enemy. Around him, ships were flying, following his gesture.

“A crusade?” Aunt Lynia said. “A campaign of battle? Leading an attack?”

“Let’s see what the next one has to say,” Parsef said, drawing another card.

“Home. I’m homesick.”

The card was flipped. It was Holy Terra.

“A crusade to Holy Terra?” The Inquisitor said.

“No, to travel to Terra,” Uncle Kemuel said. “A discovery, travel, and Terra. The discovery has to travel to Terra.”

“And do what?” Lynia asked.

“Does it really matter?” Croan said. “She is the Emperor reborn. Perhaps she can properly instruct us how to repair the Golden Throne. Perhaps she can…meld with the Emperor, or can otherwise cure him and restore His rule.”

“And what shall I tell the High Lords?” Parsef demanded. “That, under my watchful eye, the Blasphemer was somehow able to _clone the fucking Emperor,_ and that we now need to be allowed back upon Holy Terra? They’ll brand us traitors before they can finish reading the message!”

“What if we don’t say she’s the Emperor’s clone?” Legato asked. “What if we just say she’s the most powerful psyker in the Imperium?”

“Druid,” Uncle Helfist corrected.

“Yea, it isn’t that far off the truth,” Aevar said. “We’re just leaving a few things out.”

“You leave too much out,” Parsef said. “And if she’s a clone of the Emperor, why is she female?”

“We couldn’t get the Y seed to work,” Legato said. “The double-X was the only thing to work.”

‘The only thing to work?’ What was she, some test? Did she have other brothers and sisters who didn’t…who didn’t live?

“Maybe tha’s why she can’t hear th’ Allfather’s thoughts, yea?” Maeva asked. “Ain’t completely on th’ same brainwave, eh?”

Everything about her life was planned out. Her conception, her birth, her childhood, the lessons she had from the Grey Knights, Uncle Helfist, Aunt Geist, _everyone_. It was all a damn plan.

“Only know that I approve this because we can’t let the Emperor die,” Parsef said tensely. Laura’s stomach, the Emperor’s, jumped with joy. “His death would mean the end of humanity. I’ll send word that…that an exceptionally powerful psyker has been found, and her purity was tested and proven in the assault by the Black Legion. She can—she can hear the Emperor, and we can use her to better communicate with Him.”

“Tha’ mean we get ta go ta Holy Terra?” Maeva asked. “Then we can fix th’ damn Throne, yea?”

“I’ll explain to the High Lords that with the proper guidance, we can keep the Throne functioning.”

“They’ll _love_ to see me again,” Aevar chuckled dryly.

“We must count our blessings where we can,” Lynia said. “Parsef, send word immediately. I…I need a moment. More than a few moments. Laura…can I still call you that? I’m sorry, I just…this is…this is a very special circumstance.”

Special.

Brenia was right. _Everyone_ was right. The boys and girls in the convent, the hateful whispers, the rumors…This is all she was: a special, pretty, giant princess, alone from everyone. She stood up, nearly running to the door.

“Laura, love, come on back,” the woman claiming to be her mom said.

“Let her go,” Aevar said, just as she slammed the door shut. At least he seemed to know what was best. She stormed down the hall, trying not to…to cry? To scream?

A clone. A fucking clone. She wasn’t even Fenrisan, she was just some over-grown test-tube experiment made because someone ran out of ideas. Everything in her life was a lie, and they expected her to go along with it, to accept that her life was planned to a ‘T.’ Her birth, her childhood, everything was laid out for her.

The twisting in her gut, the damn Emperor, was trying to get her to feel relief. Why? Was this his plan all along? To get her to Terra? It was like she never even mattered, it was all about what she could do for the Imperium. They wanted to take and take and take from her until nothing was left, she knew it.

What happened to what she wanted? To find friends, a place where she could be herself. She stopped, leaning against a wall. Just thinking of friends made her think of Dylena. She was the only real friend Laura ever had. What kept her alone was her uncles, her aunts…who even _had_ Space Marines as uncles? No wonder everyone hated her.

She missed Dylena so much it ached. She was more than a friend.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. They were heavy, loud. It had to be one of her fucking uncles. Laura started running, taking turns at random to try and lose him. She stepped up her pace and climbed a few staircases. Soon, she was alone. Her stomach was trying to tell her something, but she ignored it. She went back to walking, idly walking towards the temple’s meal hall. For the briefest second, she thought she could lose herself in the crowd.

Then she remembered that she towered over them, how she looked so different from them with no blemishes or scars, how she was the picture-perfect image of humanity. How fucking stupid was she? She’d stand out like a sore thumb; against her perfection, everyone’s flaws would be magnified. Laura actually laughed at that. Try to lose a massive, giant princess among them?

She rounded a corner and nearly ran head long into a man. But it was like it was happening in slow motion; she easily got out of the man’s way. Then she saw that it was Kruko.

“Laura,” he smiled slowly.

“Are you drunk?”

“The sisters are turning a blind eye,” he grinned, slurring his words. He grabbed her hand and tried to pull her along. With her newfound size and weight, and his drunkness, it was impossible for him to move her. “Seeing what we went through. Come on, don’t leave. The party’s here.”

“I’m fine,” she said frostily.

“Aw, come on, can’t you stay a bit for me?” Kruko asked, still holding her hand. He was running his thumb over her hand, feeling it. Almost savoring it. “I’m not a bad guy, once you get to know me. Can’t you stay?”

Laura felt like laughing. The only person who’d stay with her was the asshole trying to get into her pants.

“No, I want to be alone.” She pulled her hand back, breaking his weak grip.

“But we’re celebrating,” Kruko begged. “Can’t you just stay here? Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Does anyone want me to celebrate with them?” She snorted. “I’m the special, giant princess, remember?”

“You mean Brenia?” He slurred. “She’s too hammered to care. Lots of the Sisters are. Come on, we just beat back the Black Legion! Loosen up, smile, you’re prettier that way.”

Fucking dammit, did she want to break him. But he was the only one who didn’t treat her like a freak.

“Can’t you just celebrate with me?” He begged. “Just the two of us? In…private?”

He might treat her like a simple fuck, a pelt to be hung on a wall, a goal to be achieved, but it would be nice to be treated like anything _but_ a freak.

Her gut twisted, disapproval and disgust rolled into one. That made it even more perfect.

“Where’s your room?”


	30. The Siege Broken

Seeing drunken PDF troopers and passed out Sisters lying all over the hallways was oddly satisfying. It helped that a few Sisters Laura saw awake were horribly, horribly hungover.

“Oh, holy Emperor,” one Sister moaned into a very full bucket, “I beg you, either cure me or kill me. If you cure me, I’ll pledge a sacred oath of temperance, never to be broken so long as I draw breath. If you kill me, I’ll follow and honor you in death as I have in life. Just please, _please_ make it end…”

It was almost enough to make her want to laugh. The few men and women to truly acknowledge her gazed at her in awe. It made Laura sick to stand out like this.

Her gut twisted. The Emperor was telling her that her wish would go unanswered; she missed the opportunity. She’d forever be that princess, alone from all. Laura knew it; Kruko did what little he could, but the stickiness of her legs was still there, hammering home the point she knew all too well.

Finally, she reached the door to her Aunt Lynia’s office. She pushed it open, to see Lynia sleeping at her desk with Uncle Aevar on the floor, his head in her lap.

“Tired?”

Aevar woke easily, while Lynia jerked awake.

“Laura,” the Canoness said. “You came back.”

“Where else can I go?” She said. “I stick out like a sore thumb. Why didn’t I grow this tall in the monastery? And why was I always sick?”

“Because of the medicine we gave you,” Aevar said. “We made you sick to keep you from growing. Imagine the confusion of you growing to be as tall as a Vlka. Imagine the questions they’d ask.”

“Imagine how your fucking project might have ended if Parsef ordered me dead,” she sneered.

“Laura,” her ‘aunt’ said. “That’s no way—“

“She’s got every right,” Aevar said. “Is there anything I can say that’ll tell you just how much I didn’t want this to happen? For you to just keep on being our little Laura?”

“What the fuck do you think?”

“Then I’ll save my breath,” he said. “But I am glad you came back.”

“Yea, yea, can’t let your damn experiment go running off.”

“Where were you last night?” Lynia asked.

“None of your business.”

“Lynia, let’s just leave this be,” Aevar said. “She’s been through the ringer. We have to give this to her.”

“That’s nice,” Laura said. “What’s in store for me?”

“Parsef is…making arrangements,” Lynia said. “He wants to move as soon as possible, given…“

“Given me?”

“Yes.”

“Nice.”

The door opened, and Kemuel walked in.

“We are searching the entire monastery for--” His eyes locked on Laura. “You have given us quite the scare.”

“Because I found a way to disappear?”

“We are oath-sworn to protect the Emperor. Given your…uniqueness, my brothers and I have talked, and agreed that our oath applies to you, as well.”

All this fucking _uniqueness_. She was really getting sick of it, she wanted to scream and tear her hair out. Her stomach twisted, an old feeling. Sympathy? Or was it sarcasm, a rolling of the eyes?

“Great. Custodes get to follow me around _again_.”

“It is not the first time.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “The other girls made it a point to never let me forget the first time it happened. When are we leaving?”

“That is up to the Inquisitor,” Lynia said.

“And what’s happening to the Claws and the marines that survived the attack?”

“With the…sudden change and the agreement to return to Holy Terra,” Lynia said, hemming and hawing, “Parsef has agreed to release them from their bonds. They’ll be returning to their Chapters, most likely to return to the Black Crusade.”

“Great. Better go ask our dear, sweet Inquisitor to see how long I can lock myself in my room.”

She turned on her heel and left the room, not giving her ‘aunt’ or ‘uncle’ any chance to talk. Not that it seemed she needed to give Aevar crap; he seemed to know that she hated him, and was letting her hate away. He was even baring his neck at her.

She passed the other Custodes, and could hear them fall in step behind her. Dammit, did she hate that. So much for things being different when she left the monastery. Still no friends, still being treated like royalty; it was like she never left, like it never ended. Now it looked like it really would never end.

 

* * *

 

Parsef was doing his best to ignore Helfist. He was studying his charts, rummaging through papers on his desk. Geist stood by him, unsure of what to do.

“So?” Helfist asked.

“’So’ what?” The Inquisitor replied.

“So, what’s the plan for going to Terra?” He groaned. “Being permanent additions to Aevar’s exile means we have to accompany him. Remember that all those years ago? Where he goes, we go to make sure you don’t cut his thread prematurely…?”

“Oh, how I wish I just _ended_ this whole farce when I had the chance,” Parsef grumbled. “Cloning the Emperor…by the Throne, is nothing sacred to the Blasphemer?”

“It’s not like we had much of a choice.”

“No, you didn’t have a choice,” Parsef snapped, “because there wasn’t a choice to make! To even _think_ about what was done is heresy to the nth degree. There have been whole generations of traitors who have lived and died without having that audacious thought. And you surpassed them! You’ve damned your soul, Helfist, damned it along with whatever shit this brings about.”

“Would you rather that the Allfather finally, truly, die?” The Rune Priest demanded. “Would you rather that the Imperium, no, all of humanity be damned to the torments of Chaos? Would you rather we suffer _that_ fate?”

Parsef met his glare, and held it for quite some time. Then the fire in his eyes died, and he slumped against his chair, the picture of defeat.

“Bad or worse,” he mumbled. “That’s all this damned job is. Bad or worse.”

“What’s bad or worse?”

“Fucking everything,” Parsef groaned. “Do we destroy a city, lest the taint of Chaos turn it from the Emperor’s Light, or do we risk saving it, and possibly risk losing the entire sub-sector? Do we kill a child psyker, or let him grow to become a daemon-host? Do we force a repentant Space Marine Chapter to undertake a crusade that they will likely not survive, or do we risk having an Ork Waargh break out? Bad or worse, and it never ends.”

“Shit, this is surprising,” Helfist said. “Thought the Inquisition picked you out to be ruthless bastards.”

“We have to be, that much can’t be denied,” Parsef said. “But we can’t _only_ be ruthless. Oh, I’ve worked with my fair share of blood-simple brutes, who only saw the answers at the end of a bolt pistol, a branding iron, or a writ for exterminatus. But they never last. Tell me, when is the last time you have seen an old Inquisitor?”

“Don’t think I’ve seen enough Inquisitors to say which ones were old,” Helfist said. “You’re the only one I’ve really seen much of. And now that you mention it, I do see some grey hair.”

“I’m ninety years old.”

“Ninety?” Helfist laughed. “You had some rejuvenation surgery then, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Parsef said. “You might not think very much of me, but among the ranks of the Inquisition, I’m often considered a radical.”

“You? Radical?” Helfist laughed.

“I know,” Parsef snorted. “I am a Puritan. Or at least I was. I thought that the God-Emperor was guiding us, showing us the correct path that he had marked out long ago. But then we had to do our jobs: finding heretics, rooting out corruption, choosing whether a planet or a sub-sector survived.”

“Bad or worse.”

“Exactly. No one can make those choices without having it change them, even the blood-simple brutes. It makes one doubt themselves. But I do believe in the God-Emperor. I believe that He is guiding us for some purpose.”

Helfist bit his tongue. If Parsef knew the truth, the Imperial Truth, it might break the poor man. There was a polite knock at the door.

“Come in,” Parsef said.

Kemuel opened the door and escorted Laura into the Inquisitor’s chambers.

“Laura,” Vermund said, uneasy. “I—“

“When are we leaving?” She demanded.

“The Lamenters will be escorting us,” Parsef said. “They leave in two days.”

“Laura,” Geist started.

“I’m claiming a room,” she said, briskly walking out. “The other girls don’t like it when Custodes guard the dorm room. Trust me, _I know_.” The Custodes followed her, closing the door.

“She’s moody,” Parsef said.

“Can you blame her? Finding out she’s a clone of the Emperor…she’s taking it pretty well, when you consider it.”

“I guess so,” the Inquisitor said. “Will you keep an eye on her?”

“If she lets me near her.”

“Good,” Parsef ordered. “I, I should get back to work. I have to get things ready.”

“May this one accompany Helfist?” Geist asked. “She wants to see if she can talk to Laura.”

“Yes, try to cheer her up.”

“By your leave,” she said, bowing. She left with Helfist, closing the door behind her. “Did you know about her?”

Helfist turned to the assassin. She was wearing her omnipresent mask, but he could tell that she was glaring at him. If looks could kill, he would be struck dead by the assassin on the spot.

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Old man Ironclaws only said that it…we called it ‘that,’ the plan to make a new Allfather. He said that ‘that’ never worked out, same as he told everyone else. I thanked my lucky stars and left it at that.”

“Maeva’s pregnancy did not alert you that things were different?”

“No, she told me about the agreement she had with her friend. I just thought that she made good on her promise. I didn’t want to think about…about ‘that’ any more than I had to.”

The assassin was quiet as they walked through the halls.

“This one wants to know,” she said. “Would Laura be angry at her?”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he replied. “The best thing would be to ask her yourself.”

“This one…could you accompany this one to Laura?” Geist asked meekly. “She does not know how to compose herself.”

“Shit, get in line.”

They entered one of the Sister’s dorm wings, and immediately spotted Kemuel and his Custode brothers. They stood watch over a door.

“Can we talk to Laura?” Helfist asked.

“Wait here,” Kemuel said. He politely knocked. “Helfist and Geist are here to see you.”

Geist’s heart hammered in her chest as she waited; Helfist could hear it. Kemuel politely cleared his throat and repeated himself.

“Helfist and Geist—“

“I heard you,” came the response. “Go away.”

“My apologies,” Kemuel said, “but the…but Laura does not wish any visitors.”

“Well, if anyone deserves to be angry, it’ll be her,” Helfist said. He was absolutely crestfallen as they walked away. “Not every day you find out you’re a clone of the Emperor.”

“Do you think that she will ever forgive us for our actions?” Geist asked.

“Wish I fucking knew,” he mumbled. “It’s not every day someone learns that they’re a clone of the gorram Allfather, or that they were made in a test tube, or made on a fucking half-assed, coked-up whim. She’ll probably hate us for a while.”

“Us? Including this one? But she has done nothing to earn that ire.”

“You’re her aunt. You’re guilty by association.”

“This one does not understand.”

“’This one’ has never been a proper child,” Helfist grinned sadly. “Before I was lifted to the Vlka, my young ones were getting to the point where they hated damn near anything that resembled authority. It’s almost a rite of passage: rebelling against your parents.

“Just because she was raised in a Sisters of Battle monastery doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen; the Sisters probably got their own way of skirting authority. But it happens to everyone. Well, nearly everyone,” he said, giving the assassin a look. “The only difference here is that she’s got a damned good reason to hate us. Who knows ‘how long’ she’ll hate us.”

“It better not be long.”

“She might not be Fenrisian, but she was still raised by them. Be prepared to be disappointed.”

 

* * *

 

The entire city was nearly reduced to rubble, and the landing pads were no exception. What was once pristinely leveled blacktop was now a massive block of hardly-leveled quick-crete. The gates and railings that held the pad’s lights were nearly universally blown off, and the remains of helldrakes were scattered around the pads, making landing on the pad that much more difficult.

Lynia looked around to the landing pad she stood on, as well as the others built around the base of the mountain. The Lamenter’s ships sat at them, loading equipment, munitions, drop pods and their marines. She had never seen so few marines as part of a Chapter.

“The heretics did a number on us,” she said, looking over her wrecked city. She should have worn her armor, to make herself feel stronger. Looking at the ruins, she felt her age, and she didn’t like it.

“Aye, they have,” Aevar said, standing next to her. “Looks a whole lot worse in the daylight.”

In the distance, modified Rhinos were clearing rubble from the streets, as well as filling in the trench work that Geist had designed.

“You sure you can’t come with us?” Aevar said.

“I want to,” Lynia said, “but want has nothing to do with my desires. I am the Canoness-Preceptor of the Valorous Heart; running the planet is part of my duties, especially after the Black Legion held it under siege. Leaving would be unbecoming of my office.”

“Damn duty.”

“Yes, damn duty,” she sighed. “I need to be free of my damned duty so we can finally finish that game of ours.”

“We’re also behind on our talks.”

“How could I forget?”

“Don’t be getting senile on me, you old bat.”

“Only if you don’t get crotchety, old man.”

Aevar bark, a rough, single peel of laughter.

“Can’t forget that you’re missing out on actually seeing Holy Terra,” he said.

“Oh yes, I almost forgot that. It has been a very long time since I have taken pilgrimage. Once work is done, I shall be on the first ship back.”

“Good. Can’t go too long without getting in your hair.”

“You really _do_ care.”

Feet rang out on the metal stairs to the pad. It was a Custode, examining the area. That meant only one thing. Lynia held the small, wrapped box in her hand tighter, waiting for her chance.

Laura walked onto the landing pad, surrounded by Kemuel and his Custodes. She was tall now, so tall and beautiful, the picture-perfect image of what humanity should look like. She must have showered, because she practically glowed. It made Lynia’s breath catch in her throat; was this what the Emperor looked, before Horus turned traitor?

It took her a few seconds to see that Laura had cut her hair, shaving one side of her head down to stubble. But the rest of her hair was long and luscious. It was a hair style adopted by many of the rebellious Sisters, the Sisters who tried to skirt around authority as much as they could, anger all who they might be able to. Lynia herself had such a haircut, once.

“Laura,” she said, taking a step forward. Kemuel held his hand up, telling her to halt. She took one more step, then stopped. “You …you cut your hair.”

“I needed a change,” Laura said coldly.

“I see. You…you forgot something.”

Laura glared at her, and Lynia nearly fell over. She had never seen such resentment before, not even from the most rebellious Sisters. An angry look should have meant nothing to her, but from the girl she helped raise, it was like a dagger to her heart. Was this what the Emperor felt when his sons abandoned him?

“Please,” she said, holding the box up.

Relenting, she reached out to take the box, only for a Custode to grab it for her. She snatched it from the Custode’s hand, and before he could take it back, she tore the top off.

“You almost forgot it with your belongings.”

It was her stuffed pup, the one Helfist crocheted for her, the one she called Revelation. The doll was showing its age; the white yarn was turning grey, and the grey yarn turning a tarnished black. The blue yarn that made its eyes were slowly turning a muted steel-color, but the stitching was still holding strong. She held it, almost cherishing its weight.

“No matter what happens, or what you truly are, you’re still my little Laura.”

Laura reached out to hug her. Now that she was taller than Lynia, it was like being enveloped.

“Forgive me, but we must be away,” Kemuel said.

Laura let her go, doing her best not to cry.

“When all is well, I will visit,” Lynia promised.

No words were needed. Lynia watched as they walked to the crowded ship, finding space among the crates of munitions.

“She’ll forgive you,” she said to Aevar. “Eventually.”

“You don’t know our women,” Aevar said. “They can hold a grudge.”

“She isn’t one of your women. Not being born on Fenris is one thing, but not actually being Fenrisian by birth is another.”

“But she was raised by one, as well as us wolves,” he said. “That counts for something.”

“You truly are a piece of work.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

 

* * *

 

It was strange to see Dimmimar hanging in the void. It was strange to think of it as her home. Laura had heard stories of Fenris, from her mother and the Vlka. Until recently, she always thought of that as her home. But with the revelation of her heritage, of what she was, she now had to think of Terra as her home.

She should have plenty of time to think of it, but not any time to watch Dimmimar spin in the void. She barely had a day to get settled in the borrowed Navigator room before they launched themselves through the immaterium.

Even though it was built to block out the foul warp, she could feel the eddies swirling just beyond the airlocked doors and walls. With nothing but time, she only had the chamber’s furnishings to keep her busy. Fortunately, there were books covering the walls, even a beautiful chess set.

 There was a knock at the door of her borrowed chambers. Laura looked up from staring at a chess set.

“Who is it?” She said.

“Geist.”

The assassin never announced herself; she was always in disguise. She got up from the table and walked to the door, looking through the view-finder into the airlock, she saw the black-clad woman standing in front of the door. It was her; she could feel her soul, could see the muted glow, and the twisting in her gut only confirmed it.

“What do you want?”

“This one wishes to talk.”

Laura realized that, until now, she hadn’t spoken a word since she left Dimmimar. It felt nice, a feeling that her stomach was only too happy to agree with. She opened the door and let the assassin in. To the sides of the door, she saw two Custode guards standing as still as statues.

“Thank you,” Geist said, entering the room. She saw the few tables, bed and bookshelf, and from the sound of her voice, sounded like she was trying to smile. “This is nice.”

“Not too bad for a cage, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Or…no, it’s tolerable, this one believes.” Her shoulders slumped. “Please forgive this one. Talking has never been her strong suit.”

“You just came to talk?”

“About you and your family. About this one’s roll in it, as well.”

“Just that?”

“If you would allow it, this one has also carried messages from your mother—“

“She’s _not_ my mom.”

“Yes, but she still feels strongly about you. Your uncles—“

“They’re not my uncles.”

Geist lowered her head.

“And is this one not your aunt?”

That got Laura to stop. Everyone, her mother, her uncles, they all knew about her. They all had a hand in making her, in planning her life. In making sure she had no life other than what they wanted.

But Geist? She didn’t know what she was. She was just shocked as Laura was to learn of what exactly she was. And when Parsef ordered Geist to strike her down, the assassin had hesitated.

No, it wasn’t fair to blame Geist like she blamed Maeva, Aevar, Croan and Legato.

“You still are,” she said. “You’re just as in the dark about me as I was.”

“This one thanks you,” Geist said. “She knows that you are angry; she simply wishes to let you know that while the truth of your lineage is a surprise, it doesn’t change how…”

“It doesn’t change what?”

Geist stood still. While her face was covered, it was obvious that she was struggling to say something.

“This one isn’t good at talking,” she mumbled. “She fears that she is much like your…like Maeva in such regard.”

Laura pulled a chair out for her aunt. Something told her they would be at this for a while.

“What do you mean?”

“It unfortunately requires some explanation of the history. This one remembers the day perfectly,” she said. “Your mother was explaining to this one about her personal conquests, her mates, and what they had meant to her. This one had believed…she did not know what she was feeling, but she did not like seeing Maeva with…other women.”

“I know that my mo—that Maeva likes women, you don’t need to dance around it,” Laura said.

Geist’s face was impossible to read, but somehow Laura knew that the assassin caught the near slip.

“She had explained to this one that, on Fenris, relationships were not permanent,” she continued. “It is a death world, after all. Because of the nature of such a world, partners would often perish, and it was necessary to move on. Maeva told her this, extremely inelegantly, because such talk was often unnecessary on Fenris. It was simply a way of life, and she had a difficult time articulating the message to an off-worlder.

“This one finds herself in a similar situation. She was raised on Krieg, another death world. Her training, since her birth, was designed to strip her sense of self away. Our very lives are an affront to the Emperor, ever since Krieg rose in rebellion to the Emperor. To atone, we must restore His will, reunite the Imperium, and perish in service.

“Krieg has had many millennia to perfect their upbringing of new service men and women. It is simply not possible to undo such an upbringing, but this one has found herself experiencing strange…feelings since before your birth, feelings that she knows nothing about. She was trained to view each person as replaceable, and to not mourn their loss. But this one would be distraught to lose Maeva, or to lose you, regardless of whom you truly are.”

The assassin sat, looking dead at her. But her shoulders seemed to drop, not from fear or apprehension, but from talking, like she had loosened a great weight on her shoulders.

“I…I don’t know what to do if you were lost, too,” Laura said. “You’ve been there since I was a little girl. You really are my aunt, and right now, it feels like you’re the only one who really worried about me.”

“That is not true. Your mother and uncles care greatly about you. I cannot speak for Julas, but Aevar, Croan and Helfist are worried about you.”

“Like Space Marines can ever care.”

“You know as well as this one that that is an inaccurate generalization,” Geist said. “Both the Salamanders and Space Wolves have long histories of helping the citizens of the Imperium. They care about humans, not solely about their own personal glory or the continued existence of the Imperium. They helped raise you, and you cannot deny them that.”

“Still doesn’t mean I can’t hate them right now.”

“Aevar said that was your right; they are not denying you that,” Geist said. “Forgive this one, she simply wishes to relay their messages to you. They simply hope that, one day, you can understand that they do care about you.”

“They’re not asking to be forgiven?”

“Croan has said that what they have done cannot be forgiven. They are not expecting that from you.”

“Oh, that’s good. Then you can tell them if they’re waiting to be forgiven, they’ll be waiting for a long time.”

“This one will be sure to relay that to them,” Geist said. “Is there anything this one can tell Maeva?”

Laura paused, thinking about the woman who raised her.

“Tell her…I’m not sure about her, yet.”

“Very well.”

“Thanks, Aunt Geist.”

“This one is happy to serve. With your leave, she will return this message to the respectful parties.”

“Sure. One last thing.”

“For you, anything.”

“How much longer is the trip?”

“The Lamenters say that it might be a matter of days. They say the warp is impossibly clam, and allowing them unprecedented speed.”

“That’s good. I’m getting really cooped up in here.”

 

* * *

 

Aevar had expected to have time during the trip to adjust. To adjust to Laura’s hatred of him, to the uncharted future that waited for them at Terra, to everything that happened, and that lead to this point.

But being planet-bound for decades made him forget that he was a ‘lucky warp charm.’  A trip that, according to astropaths, should have taken nearly a great year was suddenly finished in mere days. It was hardly enough time to adjust to the glares he was getting from Helfist and Geist.

But the trip was done, and once again, he stood before the Eternity Gate. The massive, kilometer-wide gate seemed to swallow him whole. Him, and the countless pilgrims who had made the voyage to Holy Terra.

“Holy.” The word nearly made him laugh. So much had changed since he had been there last. And so much was going to change once again.

_“Fekke,”_ Maeva gasped in Juvik as she walked off the Thunderhawk.

_“Fekke is right,”_ Helfist said, staring himself.

A group of Custodes were walking up to them, escorting a group of richly-robed men.

“Stand down, Aevar Ironclaws,” one man commanded in a regal voice. His High Gothic was, of course, flawless. It seemed like he wore makeup, to make himself seem more distinguished. “We are the Emissaries of the High Lords of Terra, and your every breath is an insult to them. They wish you to be securely bound.”

“’Bind me?’ Don’t you want to take me out to dinner first?”

That got a rough peel of laughter from Helfist. Even Kemuel cracked a smile. The Emissaries blanched at it.

“Custodes, bind him and deliver your report,” the painted man sputtered. Aevar surrendered Katla and Iounn to the Custodes, who locked his arms in chains.

“We have returned to Terra, bringing a great woman,” Kemuel said, bowing. “She has the potential to be the most powerful psyker the Imperium has seen since Malcador the Sigillite, possibly as powerful as the Emperor.”

“Your praise means much, Custode, but guard yourself; you cannot dare to bring such blasphemy to the Imperial Palace. Its presence is already sullied by the presence of a certain individual.”

“Well now, who could _that_ be?” Aevar gasped dramatically.

“We shall take you to the High Lords, after we adhere to procedures and conduct a Soul Binding,” the speaker said dryly, giving Aevar a glare. “Bring them to the Emperor’s Chambers. If you appear to be attempting to free yourself, your life is forfeit.”

Looking over his armored shoulder, he could see Croan and Legato letting Laura being led away by a team of Grey Knights; Julas and Parsef walked with her. Laura looked over at Aevar, staring back at him as he was led away. Rather than staring at him with open hate, she looked passed him, as if he was in the way of someone else. His hearts sank. Maybe one day, she’ll stop hating him so much. 

 

* * *

 

Laura’s stomach flipped. She was full of nervous energy, so full of it she felt like she would explode. She was close, so close and getting closer…but to what? She was filled with the anxious energy; was it the Emperor that was feeling it, or was it just herself?

They walked through the massive halls of the Imperial Palace. Ahead of them was the doors to the Throne Room. Kemuel walked beside her, holding her back to make sure she walked with the Emissaries of the High Lords instead of out-pacing them.

“Be careful,” he whispered. “I have seen many soul-bindings. They are painful, but necessary. Please, guard yourself well.”

“Think I’ll be fine,” she mumbled. “Uncle Kemuel?”

“Yes, Little Laura?”

She actually missed being called that.

“C-can you ask for Aevar, Helfist, Croan, Legato and…and my mom to be there?”  She asked. “I’d like them there.”

“As you wish.”

They wandered through the cavernous, ornate halls. Laura wondered how anyone could make their way through the damn place. It was like they were walking forever.

“We are here,” a Custode said. A massive set of doors stood before them; they were the Sanctum Imperialis, and beyond them, something powerful was pulsating. Laura could feel it in her marrow. It scared her.

At the entrance of the doorway, stood her uncle Aevar. He was waiting for her, wrapped in chains. Uncle Croan, Uncle Helfist and Uncle Legato stood with him, as well as her mother. Even Parsef was there, with Uncle-Sergeant Julas who finally had a new cybernetic arm.

“Mom,” she whispered. Maeva looked like she was about to cry, just hearing her say that.

The moment didn’t last long. The two massive doors were opened, and Laura’s stomach dropped out from her. The Golden Throne stood before her, and on it, the man she was cloned from.

The Emperor sat on the Throne, silent in his vigil. But the pulsating sense of power was overpowering to her, dwarfed only by the restless energy burning in her gut.

Behind her, she heard someone fall to the ground. She somehow knew it was her ‘mother,’ but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Emperor.

If she was his clone, would that make him her brother? No, that wasn’t it; she couldn’t think of the Emperor of that. She was drawn by the desire to walk closer. It was only when two spears were thrust towards her face that she realized that she _was_ walking closer to the Throne.

“Stand down,” a Custode demanded. Behind her, she could hear screaming, the speaker ordering her to stop.

But there was a beating in her ears, drawing her closer. It was almost like something else was making her move. Her arms almost moved by themselves; she brushed them aside, and with a simple mental push, sent them flying. Custodes from around the room rushed her.

But they were slow, and she was burning with power. She mentally pushed them, sending the black-armored giants flying to the side. More Custodes from their stations around the room were converging on her, sprinting to place themselves between her and the Emperor.

But she was already at the base of the Throne. She placed one foot at the base of the Throne, and she was suddenly exploding.

Raw power was being poured into her. It felt like lava was being poured into her skull, an entire thunderstorm worth of lightning hitting her face every second, of dozens of megatons of explosives blowing up around her, all at once. It was endless torrent that was flowing into her, washing her away, blasting her away, burning her to cinders.

_Finally!_ a voice screamed. _Finally!!!_

Laura tried to stop it. She tried to reach out to wherever the power was coming from and close the doors to it. But she couldn’t find the source. It was in front of her, but at the same time, it was all around her, swallowing her and drowning her all at once. It was like trying to block out an ocean as the tide drew in.

The raw power was spilling from her eyes, her ears, her nose and mouth. She tried to scream, but there was noise coming from her throat, something overpowering and raw. She was being burned alive, but at the same time, deep down in her gut, she felt herself becoming whole. And then suddenly, she was falling, falling, falling into some deep, bottomless hole.

 

* * *

 

Laura was screaming, or something like it. It was something that Aevar had heard before, when traitors were summoning daemons from the warp, or one had groveled and begged enough to gain the favor of being turned into a daemon. It made his bones tremble; or would have, if the pure force of the power was not threatening to throw him around the room.

Whatever force it was, it had knocked aside nearly everyone. The Custodes who were sprinting towards Laura to stop her were thrown aside like toys. The force was creating a whirlwind of light, screams and power, nearly pushing everyone against the far walls of the Throne Room. It was forceful enough to throw the doors to the Sanctum Imperialis open, nearly ripping them from their hinges.

Lights was spilling from Laura’s eyes, nose, mouth, even her ears. It was like the light was trying to burn her skin off. His hearts slammed in his chest. He needed to help her, he needed to be there for her.

That was his girl, dammit. That was his little girl, and she was in pain.

“Helfist,” he screamed, trying to be heard over the din. Somehow, Helfist heard him. The Rune Priest might be next to him, but he might as well have been miles away. “We need to save her.”

Helfist tried to say something, but blood was leaking from every available orifice. He couldn’t speak, but he nodded.

Helfist reached out and shattered his chains. There was so much power, the Rune Priest didn’t even have to try to harness the might of Fenris; it was being pushed into his body, his soul, whether he liked it or not.

Ahead of him, Maeva and Parsef were holding onto Julas, who was had sunk his newly made bionic arm into the ground, barely keeping him in place. She looked back, seeing him.

“We need to save her,” Aevar screamed, pointing towards Laura. Maeva nodded, but surprisingly, the massive hurricane stopped.

It stopped suddenly, with no warning or decrease in speed and pressure. One moment it was there, the next it simply wasn’t. Lanterns and incense holders were thrown to the corners of the room. Prayer scrolls were torn apart, seals smashed, and candles were extinguished. The Custodes were the first to recover, and they stared at, and advanced cautiously, towards Laura.

Laura sat at the foot of the stairs, scratching herself like a madwoman. She was digging her nails into her scalp, moving them back and forth so fast they were nearly a blur, groaning and laughing her pleasure all the while.

The Custodes held their positions, unsure of what to do. They stood nearly for a minute, watching as Laura moved from itching her scalp to scratching her face. Then she moved onto her neck, digging her nails into her skin. She tore gouges into her skin, nearly flaying herself. But as soon as her skin was torn off, it bubbled and pulsed; her skin was healing itself impossibly fast. And she kept scratching, groaning and laughing.

“What are you doing?” A Custode demanded.

“Hold that thought, will you?” Laura said.

But it wasn’t Laura. It sounded like her, but at the same time, it wasn’t. She didn’t speak the same way; the emphasis on the words, the inflections, the cadence of her talk, it was all off.

It wasn’t Laura. It was a thing using Laura’s voice. Somehow it didn’t even smell like her.

“What _is_ that?” Helfist gasped. His hair, like Aevar’s stood on end. “What happened to her?”

The Custode advanced on her, holding his halberd at the ready.

“You do not—“

“Look, I really need this,” Formerly Laura said, cutting the Custode off. “Just give me a few minutes, right? Oh fuuuuuuck, this was a _long_ time coming.”

“Under the order of the Emperor, I demand that you tell us what you are doing,” the Custode commanded.

“The fuck does it look like?” Laura said. “Dammit, that itch was bothering me for the last eight thousand years. It’ll drive you crazy, too. Aah, whoever invented itching is a _genius_.”

 The Custode looked back at his brother Custodes, obviously unsure what the hell was going on.

“In the name of the Emperor, tell us what you did,” he demanded.

“Can’t a guy scratch an itch in peace?” Laura snapped. Her mad itching moved on to her arms. Pieces of flesh were dug and pulled free, only to rapidly heal once again. “I’ve got a laundry list of shit to do, and this is numbers five through eight. Seriously, just give me a minute or fifty.”

Feet pounded the ground. In the sudden silence of the hurricane, they echoed loudly. Aevar was too transfixed on the thing that was using Laura’s body that he didn’t recognize several tech-priests running in.

“The Throne is failing!” They screamed, both in High Gothic and Binary. “The machine-spirit has been abused for too long! It is failing! We must save the Emperor!”

“Just let the damn thing die,” Laura said. “It’s been a huge pain in the ass since the beginning.”

If the entire room wasn’t quiet before, it was dead silent now.

“’Allow the Throne to fail?’” A Custode bellowed. “How could you demand such a thing?”

“Uh, _hello_ , bed sores?” Formerly Laura replied. “Do you have any idea how bad millennia-old bed sores are? Any idea at all?! Would it have killed you to at least flip me over every month or so? Worst service ever. If Yelp was still around, I’d give it zero stars.”

“What…bed sores? Is that, no, what are you saying?”

“Holy Throne,” Julas gasped. “Are, are you…no, you cannot be.”

“Aw, come one, let me hear you say it,” Formerly Laura smiled. “Just this once.”

“You are the Emperor.”

“Ring-a-ding-ding! Biggie’s back, baby!”

Nearly everyone dropped to a knee. Helfist was among the first, but the Custodes all moved as one. Only Aevar remained standing, rooted in place. The Emperor? What happened to his Laura?

“Okay, alright, knock that off,” Formerly Laura, the Emperor, said. “Get up, all of you. Stop it, for real, stand the fuck up, no more of that, halt, arrêtez, prohibere, get your shit together, come on, get up.”

The mortals hesitantly began pulling themselves to their feet, unsure of what to do.

“Come on, stand, dammit! No more kneeling,” Formerly Laura/the Emperor yelled. “I’m sick and fucking tired of it.”

“But…but why?” One of the tech-priests asked. “You are the Master of Mankind. Shouldn’t we kneel?”

“Look, I made an entire Legion kneel once, and it didn’t exactly turn out good for me, did it?” The Emperor said. “I learn from my mistakes. No more kneeling.”

“S-should we fix the Throne?” the tech-priest said.

“Fuck the hell no, I want to watch that thing fail. Do you have any idea how much I hate that Golden Crapper right now? Any at all? Worst seat of all time.”

“But…but…but the warp storms,” the priest gasped. “They will tear Terra apart, create a new Eye of Terror.”

“Ugh, fine,” the thing that was Formerly Laura gasped. “You, bring your tools. Yea, you. Come on, I don’t bite. We gotta get this thing up and running, don’t we? You, too.”

Aevar stared as she pointed at him.

“Me?”

“Did I stutter?” The Emperor asked. “I need your hand, and you’ve been better than these yahoos when you first came here.”

Stunned, he cautiously walked forward with the small team of tech-priests. He then realized that the Emperor was staring at him.

“Is there…anything wrong?” He asked. The Emperor wasn’t just staring at him, but was drilling into him, like her gaze was trying to pierce his flesh and bones. The Emperor, in his Little Laura’s body, was inches from his face, gazing at him.

“What are you?” The Emperor asked.

“’What am I?’”

“Yea, what the hell are you?”

“Please, the Throne,” a tech priest begged.

“Ugh, fine. Fucking hell, I promised myself I’d _never_ save this damn thing,” The Emperor grumbled. She walked towards the throne and began tearing off panels. “Science H. Logic, this damn thing just doesn’t want to leave me alone. Alright, who’s got a few dozen screwdrivers…?”

Nearly all the tech-priests lunged forward, all holding various tools.

“Service with a smile. Nice,” the Emperor said. She took one tool and leaned in towards the Throne. “Alright, what do we have here? Please say it’s a blown converter junction, please say it’s a blown converter junction, ha! It is! I told you so!”

“Uh, Emperor, who are you talking to?” One of the tech-priests asked.

“Myself. But I’m not _conversing_ with myself,” she said, pulling out tangled and melted wires. “You can talk to yourself, but the second you start answering yourself, things tend to go downhill. Crap, that takes me back to the 36th millennium.”

“The thirty-sixth millennium? You…you mean the time of the Black Crusades, the rise of the Beast and the Ork Waargh that nearly crushed the entire Imperium and destroyed Terra, and surge in warp storms? That was caused by you?”

“Yea, I might’ve taken my eye off the prize for a bit to address that whole ‘answering yourself’ thing. My bad.”

“But…how…”

“Don’t worry about it. It gives me a headache just thinking about it, so that means it’ll probably blow your mind,” she continued. “Literally. I’m talking about re-creating that head-explosion scene from _Scanners_. Bad juju. But yea, ten millennia on this piece of shit with really nothing much else to do aside from the whole ‘stop a new _Event Horizon_ from happening’ gives you a shit ton of sweet fuck-all to do. Had to try real hard to kick that habit.”

Wires and components were torn out and re-installed. The Emperor, Laura, was moving so fast Aevar couldn’t keep up with what was happening.

“Answering myself. Oof. What a bitch that was. If you ever catch a bad case of mental sickness, don’t try to cure yourself. Take it from me.”

“Why were you talking to yourself in the first place?”

The Emperor pulled herself from the innards of the Golden Throne and gave the offending tech priest a withering glare.

“ _You_ try spending ten millennia in solitary confinement and let’s see how well you keep _your_ shit together!” She snapped. “Fucking back-seat drivers, always think they can do your job for you. Now where’s that damn capacitor bank…?”

“Can you fix it?” Aevar asked. He realized both his hearts were pounding in his chest.

“Aside from the fact that I built it, I’ve had a few millennia to think about what was going wrong with this damn thing. I’m pretty sure I can get it back up and running,” the Emperor said. “Shit, that cap is blown. That’s your problem right there. So, if the cap is blown, that means the voltage spikes with nothing to smooth it out. So I need to add a new cap, route the power to the PCB board over there, kick the amps up a few dozen notches to compensate, and boom!”

A massive groan went up from deep within the Throne. It sputtered, then caught, and grew in intensity.

“And that’s how you fix a one-of-a-kind Golden Crapper,” the Emperor said, pulling herself from the throne. “You’re welcome.”

“It’s working,” the tech-priests gasped, reading from a data pad. “It’s working like it’s never done before.”

“Of course it is,” the Emperor said. “I built the damn thing. You’d think I know a thing or two about it.”

“But if you’re not sitting on the Throne, then who is?”

“I am on the Throne,” Laura said. She jerked her thumb at the corpse that sat on the chair. “Tried to get myself put into this body when it was born, but it turns out you can’t really do any possession attempts across the galaxy without a few dozen blood sacrifices to help smooth things out. It ended up being a long-distance soul-binding, and I put a _lot_ of myself into this body.

“But that doesn’t matter, ‘cus it turns out this is a slightly-imperfect clone! And the best part about having a slightly-imperfect clone is that once you get on the same brain-waves, you can do whatever you want. I’m both in this body, as well as holding the fort down there. ‘Cus technically, you’re _not_ in two places at the same time; someone extremely _like_ you is at a different place. Great fucking loophole. For a wayward son, Magnus had some damned good ideas. Now I got psykic WiFi! Wait, no, more like psykic drone control.”

Magnus? Magnus the Red? Aevar’s stomach twisted, thinking of the hated traitor. He could smell the kill-urge leaking off Helfist at the mere mentioning of the name.

Parsef approached, then knelt. “Holy Emp—“

“Remember what I said about having a list of things to do?” She said, cutting him off. “This ‘holy’ crap is at the top of the list. It don’t fly no more.”

Aevar’s hearts suddenly turned to ice. He couldn’t be revealing the Imperial Truth, not here, not now.

“Er, gracious Emperor…?” Parsef began.

“Progress!”

“If you have returned to us, you need to tell the Imperium,” he said. “Word must be spread—“

“Cool. I’mma take a shower.”

“I beg your pardon?” Parsef said.

“Look, I’ve been on that damn thing for nearly ten millennia,” she said. “I probably smell worse than a Nurgling at this point.”

“It is…fair,” he stammered.

“Speaking of smells, _fucking hell_ , did you assholes have to go overboard with the incense?” She demanded. “A bit is fine every now and then, but every damn day? This place would be a stoner’s paradise if this was any thicker. Jimi Hendrix would love the crap outta this. ‘Purple Haze’ ain’t got shit on this cloud. And why can’t we get a few damn windows in here?”

“Glad I’m not the only one who thought the incense was too much,” Helfist muttered.

“The incense can be fixed,” Parsef said. “We need to spread word of your return once you’re back from your shower.”

“Nope,” she said. “Once I’m done with that shower, I’mma take a bath.”

“Didn’t you say that you’ll take a shower?” The Inquisitor demanded.

“Do you like soaking in your filth? I don’t,” Laura said. “Baths are relaxing as fuck, but only when you’re clean. Get clean with the shower, soak in the bath. Boom. Winning. Hey, Custodes.”

“What is your will?” They said. They began to kneel, but the Emperor glared death at them. Remembering what he, she, said, they awkwardly stood, but bowed their heads.

“Better,” Laura said. “Get my shower ready, and draw my bath. And when you’re done with that, plan a dinner,” she said. “Eating psykers is good, but they get bland after a few months. That, and I need to get up on my carbs and protein intake. Shit, I need to up my _everything_ intake. And make as much of it spicy. If it don’t peel paint, I don’t want it on my tongue. Find some Indian places and order the whole menu three times over.”

“I beg your pardon, but ‘Indian?’” The lead Custode asked.

“Indian food,” the Emperor said. Blank looks stared back at her. “From India.”

“What is this ‘India?’”

“No Indian food?” She nearly screamed. “You fuckers lost Indian food?! Damn you! Damn you, you dirty apes, it was Earth all along!”

“We…shall do our best to inquire about this food from ‘India—‘“

“Ugh, never mind,” the Emperor mumbled, crestfallen. “Just some of the greatest, spiciest food the universe had ever seen going to waste, being lost to the sands of time. This bath better be fucking worth it. I still want the spiciest foods you can find.”

“Understood.”

“And then may we spread word you’re your ascension?” Parsef begged.

“Nope.”

“Why?” He groaned.

“’Cus I’mma take a fucking nap after that shit. Food coma, here I come.”

“You cannot be serious,” Julas gasped.

“Ten millennia in a quasi-dead state doesn’t mean you get to catch up on your beauty sleep,” the Emperor said. “Just trust me on that, okay? Custodes, has my room been touched?”

“No, sire.”

“Oof, this whole ‘sire’ thing is gonna get changed,” the person that was Laura said. She gazed at her own breasts, grabbing them. “And _these_ things are gonna take some getting used to. Downside to having an imperfect clone. Guess I better get used to being ‘the Empress.’”

Parsef was nearly tearing his hair out. “And then—“

“Fine. Then put the word out that I’m back. We good? Awesome. To the showers!”

The Custodes left with the Emperor/Empress as she idly, mindlessly chattered, leaving everyone standing in stunned silence.

“Okay, th’ fuck was tha’?” Maeva yelled.


	31. The Emperor Reborn

The village was tiny. It was made from grass huts that were barely permanent shelter. It reminded Laura of the stories her mom used to tell her of Fenris, of the crude huts that they lived in during the winter months, before the planet approached the Wolf’s Eye and the ice began to melt.

But this wasn’t Fenris; the weather was far too warm for it. It was temperate, warm but not cool, and the wind that blew through the village was fresh, not the biting wind of winter. The huts were on a steppe, with long, stretching plains of what appeared to be tall grass or grain reaching to the horizon.

And the people…they wore rough-spun clothes, seemingly made from wool. They were dressed like death worlders, but they were not living on a death world. They walked around Laura, carrying bundles of sticks, herding animals or doing other busy-work. She saw some women sewing and weaving, while others were gutting animals to prepare them to cook. A few men were helping them, while others were herding animals, or fixing the rough huts.

There was no sound; all there was some strange voice talking, a nearly mindless, unintelligible chatter.

“Hello?” Laura yelled. “Where am I? What is this?”

No one paid her any mind. The only thing she could hear was the same monotonous talk. It was all of the same vocal infliction, though, as if it wasn’t a group of people talking, but rather one person talking dozens of times at once, somehow talking over themselves.

“Fucking mess…”

“…embarrassment…”

“…a little break? Just once…?”

“This reminds me…”

“…back, I’ll have to fix that…”

“…Add it to the list…”

“Can I even remember the entire list…?”

“Hello?” She turned, trying to find someone who could hear her. “Hello! Where the Hel am I? What happened in the Throne Room? Something happened to me. What’s going on?”

She tried grabbing one man, but her hand passed through him, as if he was nothing but fog or mist. She tried again, but the man diffused through her grasp. Was he some kind of rogue psyker?  She tried reach out and scry him, but felt nothing. She looked at him, trying to place him, but she realized that it wasn’t just like trying to grab smoke, it was like looking at smoke, too.

Laura could see the shape of the man, but his features were faded to the point of haze. He had no face, but rather a dark splotch of skin. His hair was similarly colored, with wisps of vapor trailing off into the sky.

She ran through the village, trying to find something that wasn’t smoke and mirrors, but it was everywhere, omnipresent. The only thing that was constant was the same non-stop voices. She pressed her hands against her ears, trying to block the damned sound out. It only turned it to a murmur.

“Where the fuck am I?”

At the outskirts of the village was a boy. But he wasn’t the same fog-person as the rest of the village, this boy was clearly defined.

“Hello?” She called, running over to him. “Hello? Where am I? What happened? I was in the Throne Room, now I’m here, wherever the fekke ‘here’ is.”

The boy said nothing. He sat on a stack of wood, playing with a carved, wooden horse. He couldn’t be more than two.

He had dark hair and perfectly bronze skin. His features were smooth and flawless, his hair long. Laura realized he had the same color skin that she had, the same hair color. She tried to touch his hair, and was shocked that she could actually touch him.

His hair was smooth and luxurious; it was the same texture as her hair. She pressed a finger into the boy’s cheek. Nothing happened to the boy; he neither moved nor reacted to the pressure, but she could feel the skin giving way, dimpling. It was like touching a smaller, boy version of herself.

“Who are you?” She asked. “Where am I?”

The boy said nothing.

“Where is this place?”

A muffled voice cut through the monotonous, omnipresent chatter. It was as if each voice stopped, trying to hear the muffled voice. The boy looked up; a woman was walking towards him.

To call it a woman was a stretch. The only thing that placed her as a woman was her dress and long hair. Every other feature was faded, the same as the fog-people.

“Mother,” the voices mumbled as one.

“Mother?” Laura said. “Is she your mom? Who are you? What’s going on?”

“I can’t remember her face,” one voice said.

“Why can’t I remember?” Another voice said. It was the same voice as the first, part of the endless chorus of talking.

“No shit I can’t remember, it was so long ago.”

“Why couldn’t I savor these moments?’

“What if I—“

“How could this—“

“I should have—“

The voices, once talking one at a time, quickly descended into the vocal pandemonium that greeted Laura when she arrived wherever the hell she was. The cacophony of the same cascading voice was back; endless and unintelligible.

They boy got up from his sitting place and ran towards the woman.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Laura screamed. She was drowned out by the voices.

 

* * *

 

“So wha’ th’ fekke happened?” Maeva demanded. “Wha’ th’ fekke happened ta my little Laura? An’ why th’ shit is tha’, tha’ ‘Allfather’ so damn twisted?”

“You think I know?” Aevar said. “This entire thing was a wild plan that somehow worked out like this. Everything is me flying by the seat of my pants.”

“But, but this…” Legato stammered. “This is…”

“This is crazy,” Croan finished for him. Croan, Aevar, Maeva and Legato sat in a room, awaiting the summons of either the Emperor, or the High Lords of Terra, while Kemuel stood guard. “Kemuel, what do the Custodes have to say about this?”

“It is…unsettling,” Kemuel grudgingly said. “Being seated upon the Throne for ten millennia has undoubtable been a mentally trying experience for him—her.”

“Damn pronouns,” Aevar growled. “But what the Hel happened to our Laura?”

“As far as I can tell, she’s still there,” Helfist said. “I can sense her, just a tiny fragment, but she’s there.”

“Ya can see her soul?” Maeva demanded. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“It’s hard, because the Allfather is there as well,” he said. “I can’t look right at her, it’s like trying to look directly at the soul of the Allfather. The only reason I know she’s in there is because every so often, there’s a dark spot that clouds her. And it looks just like Laura’s soul.”

“Then the Emperor is using Laura?” Croan asked.

“I don’t know what the Hel is going on, but they’re both somehow there, in the same body,” he said. “But the Allfather is so much more powerful than Laura, it would be possible that he’s overpowering her.”

“It would explain why he appears to be using her body,” Legato said. “The larger force overwhelms the smaller.”

“An’ wha’ th’ fekke happens ta th’ smaller force?” Maeva demanded. “Tha’s my girl there!”

“She’s still there, but with the Allfather,” Helfist said. “Other than that, I don’t know.”

“But the Emperor said he was still on the Throne,” Aevar said. “He can’t be on the Throne and…and _possessing_ Laura at the same time, can he?”

“It looks like he is,” Helfist said. “If it can be called a possession; it doesn’t look anything like the normal Chaos possessions that we see.”

“This is the Emperor we are talking about,” Croan said. “There is no possible way for the Emperor to even remotely act in a similar manner to a Chaos possession.”

“Croan speaks the truth,” Kemuel said. “The Emperor is above Chaos. Empress. She might be imbuing Laura with his power, but to suggest He is possessing her is near heretical.”

“Still want ma little Laura back,” Maeva hissed.

“We all do,” Aevar said.

“So wha’ we gonna do ta get her back?” Maeva demanded.

“Shit if I know,” he said. “But we have to keep our heads down. With the Emperor up and about, shit is gonna hit the fan. The High Lords of Terra won’t like knowing they’re out of a job.”

“Wha’ ya mean?”

“The High Lords of Terra rule in the Emperor’s stead,” Croan said. “What is the point of their rule, the point of their power, if the Emperor has returned?”

Custodes opened the door to the room. The Emperor sauntered in, his/her hair still damp from bathing.

“Nothing like a bath after a good nap. What you all standing around for?” The Emperor asked. “Come on, I got my Imperium to rebuild. I need to get some work done, and you lot are the only ones worth really bringing along. Come on! Let’s go!”

Aevar groaned, but got to his feet. He did his best to not look at the Empress; he couldn’t help but see his Little Laura there, waiting to be rescued.

 

* * *

 

The droning, monotonous voices were grating on her ears, on her brain. Laura was holding her ears closed, pushing with enough force to make her head ache, but the sounds would simply not stop. They were always there, chattering, berating themselves, extolling themselves, blaming themselves, hating themselves, begging themselves, it never ended.

The fog places that she was at shifted madly. The grass-hut village had shifted to a towering, bustling metropolis of steel and concrete. But it wasn’t a hive world; it was still much too small to meet the Imperium requirements of a hive world. And the things they used were so old, so outdated…engines that billowed steam and small, primitive cars crisscrossed the streets. Many people still used horses.

The outdated metropolis had faded before Laura could find the solid-figured man. No matter what scene the world shifted to, he was always there, the one person who wasn’t faded or fogged. She had looked for him, but most of the time, she couldn’t find him.

The world shifted. It became a warzone, with blasted earth and barbed wire stretching across no-man’s land. The sound of artillery echoed across the sky, but it wasn’t real artillery. It was like a half-remembered sound of artillery, or a very, very early concept of it; it was faded, distant. Even when it struck the ground near her, it sounded like it was happening many miles away. It wasn’t able to pierce the droning, prattling voices. She sang, screamed at the top of her lungs, to try and force the voices out.

 

_There was a bear! A bear!_

_All black and brown and covered with hair!_

_The Bear! The Bear!_

She sang/shouted at the top of her lungs until her voice was hoarse, but it was hard to hear herself. Screaming and crying, she pressed harder on her ears to try and blot out the talking. How long was she here? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Decades? Centuries? It was like time held no meaning at all. There was only the shifting, mysterious fog that painted the strangest of pictures, and the chattering, prattling voices.

Crying, she curled up into a ball. She wanted her masks, her wyrd-necklace, her mother, even her uncles. She even wanted Uncle Aevar.

“Please, help,” she sobbed.

 

* * *

 

The Emperor mindlessly prattled as she walked down the hallways of the Imperial Palace. Aevar, Croan and Legato hesitantly followed. Custodes were at their sides to either protect the Emperor from them, or to be their execution squad. 

“Where are we going?” Legato asked.

“We’re headed to the Emperor’s private lab,” Aevar said. “Shit, back when I was brought to Terra, if the library didn’t pan out, I would’ve asked to come here.”

“If you went to the Emperor’s laboratory instead of his library, would it damn us more or less than we are damned right now?” Croan asked. “Would we be up to our eyes in madness if it were not for that?”

“Shit, probably not,” Aevar mumbled. “Something tells me that if the Emperor got off the Throne, we’ll be fucked just as bad.”

They went quiet, while the Emperor mindlessly chatted on, using Laura’s voice to send echoes throughout the massive halls of the Palace. Aevar tried to follow what the Emperor was saying, but it was impossible to follow what was being said. He heard the words, but could not make sense of anything. One sentence would lead to the next, but it hardly seemed to follow any coherent thought.

“The Empress seems chatty,” he said.

“She is. He, whatever the Master of Mankind prefers,” Kemuel said. “I stood guard outside the bathroom, during her shower and bath. The Emperor demanded that Custodes accompany her, him, to ‘keep them company.’”

“There were Custodes inside the bath?” Aevar asked.

“At the Emperor’s request. Empress. She neither likes to be alone, nor does she like silence.”

“Then it was just her talking?”

“She was trying to engage us in any manner of conversation,” Kemuel replied. “Upon her completion of her shower and the beginning of her bath, she ordered us to talk about whatever crossed our mind. My brother who stood guard inside the bath fell back to reciting his oaths, names, and the deeds he performed to attain his names. Once he finished his stories, he began retelling the tales of the fallen Chapters of Space Marines.”

“Nice subject.”

“The Empress did not seem to mind the morbid nature. She craved noise and speech.”

Aevar looked at the Empress. Where was his little girl?

“What’ll you think we’ll find in the lab?” Legato asked.

“Beats me,” Aevar said. “But if it’s anything like the library, it’ll be something that would shake the Imperium.”

“Ya mean any more ‘n thin’s right now?”

“Yea, probably.”

“I assume that we shall find relics of a lost age,” Croan said. “The Emperor was a talented worker with machines. Perhaps we can find a cure for Laura.”

“We might only get to be in here once. Keep your eyes peeled,” Aevar whispered. Waiting for them at the entrance to the laboratory was a team of Mechanicus tech priests and servitors.

“Oh, risen Emperor,” the lead priest said. Aevar recognized him as an Archmagos of Mars; like nearly all other tech priests of his rank, he was more machine than man, yet unlike the Archmagos Slithin, he still retained his human face. He began to bow, but the Custodes beat him to it. They gently grabbed his shoulder just as he was about to lower his head.

“We are all equals,” one Custode said. “There is no need to bow.”

“B-but he is the—“

“The Emperor? Yea, I know,” The Empress said. “Just stop groveling, I’m sick and tired of it.”

“As you command,” the Archmagos said, obviously unsure of himself. “I am Archmagos Uce. The Mechanicus have been jubilant to hear that you have been revived from the Golden Throne. We understand that you will be entering your sacred workshop—“

“It’s just a workshop,” the Emperor snapped. “Stop thinking it’s something special, ‘cus it ain’t.”

“We—as you wish,” Uce said. “May we accompany you?”

“Sure,” the Empress said. “Nice to know that privacy is still valued here and people just don’t go barging in. Come on, bring your friends with you. Got a lot of work to do, so maybe we can make a bit of headway with this.”

The Custodes pushed the thick doors open. The hinges groaned, squealing and popping.

“Ugh, seriously? Why couldn’t you oil the damn hinges? Got a real bad feeling about this.”

Servitors moved with lightning speed to grease the hinges. With oil in the hinges, the doors were pushed open. A massive cloud of dust was kicked up by the opening door. A few of the tech-priests began chanting in Binary, overcome with the reverence of the room.

“Oh, come on! You assholes couldn’t at the very least have _dusted?”_ The Empress demanded. That shut the tech priests and the Archmagos up. “Ugh, can’t believe all this shit. Fine, let’s see what ten thousand years of negligence have done.”

She walked into the laboratory, grumbling all the while.

“Don’t flip me when I’m on the Throne, don’t dust shit, don’t oil crap, fat lotta good all these fuckers have done. No wonder the damn Throne was falling apart…”

The inside of the lab looked much like the Emperor’s private library. Book cases lined the enormous room, filled with texts and scrolls. There were massive tables, but instead of being covered with books and scrolls, they were covered with dust-stained glassware. Dried out test-tubes and Petri dishes sat in wire racks, crusted over with ancient samples. Bunsen burners littered the tables, while lasers and cameras were stationed over strange metal hunks and tubes. A few were still covered with frost as ancient mechanisms kept them cold.

Aevar recognized spectrometers that were stacked three high for whatever reasons. Microscopes lay unmoved, with their glass lenses shattered. Robotic arms were slumped over, their servo-muscles burned out from countless decades of inactivity.

“Total fucking nightmare,” the Emperor grumbled, going from table to table. He dragged his finger across one table, as if she was measuring the thick layer of dust. “All that work on the webway, gone up in smoke. Well, this is all pretty much shot. Let’s see what kind of crap the logic-engines had to put up with.”

“Oh, sacred machine-spirit,” Archmagos Uce stammered. “We are truly in the heart of your greatest work.”

“ _Totally_ the greatest,” the Emperor said sarcastically, walking further into the laboratory. “Was this close to getting the webway to work. This close! Then fucking Magnus had to wreck it all with that warning of his.”

“Magnus the Red?” Aevar growled. “He attacked Terra.”

“No, he sent me a message,” the Empress said. “The only way he knew how, and the only way that would make me pay attention to it. Played right into the hands of the enemy, too. Worked way too damn well. Would it have killed Russ to bring him in alive?”

“’Bring him in alive?’” Aevar demanded. “You ordered him to put the traitor to the sword.”

“Since when did I say that?” The Empress said. She found a logic-engine terminal and typed at the keyboard. Aevar was going to demand an answer, but she continued on, ignoring him. “Nope, dead. Zero for one. Next one. Come on, come on, nope. Dead, too. Zero for two.”

“What do you mean, ‘bring Magnus in alive?’”

“Just what it sounds like,” she said, walking to the next computer.

“What is it that you’re looking for?” Legato asked.

“Any signs of life in these damn thing,” the Emperor said. “But nooooo. These things ran through their lifetime expectations several thousand years ago. Too much to hope for.”

“What happens now?” Croan asked.

“The worst-case scenario: we start from scratch,” the Emperor said, hacking away at the last remaining terminal. “Can’t be _that_ bad; I know what I’m looking for, but I have to define everything all over so I can isolate—aw hell yea!”

The tech-priests crowded over to the last terminal. Its screen was a dull glow, as if the backlight was burned out, but showed ancient iconography and data. A simple terminal window was on the screen.

“This baby’s still up and running!” The Emperor cheered. “Oh sweet Black fucking Sabbath, look at that uptime. Look at it! Three million, sixty-four thousand, seven hundred and sixty days! Over nine million years! That is mythical uptime!”

“To think that even a spark of life was still alive, after all this time,” Uce said.

“No thanks to you. Fuck, this thing needs a reboot.” The Emperor’s hands were a blur as she typed in commands. Line after line sped through the logi-computer. “Look at that processes count. No reboots means this thing just kept adding fucking threads, and that jacked the CPU usage to the max. Better save whatever shit is still left on it. Now I have to recover all the other crap that’s stored on the network.”

“I have been observing the entire laboratory,” Uce said. “But I’m afraid that is beyond our ability to recover.”

“No offense, but your methods are shit.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

“You can’t even figure out how the damn Throne works,” the Emperor said. “It’s hard, yea, but you can do it. I mean, I walked the old Mechanicus through the process. And I was on death’s door! Still am, technically. So, I just have to do this all myself.”

Uce traded looks with Aevar and Croan. The Salamander shrugged weakly. What else was there to do but shut their mouths?

“Ugh, ten millennia. That means that all my flash drives are out,” the Empress muttered, thinking out loud, ticking off her fingers as she ran through options. “No power, flash memory goes bye-bye. Hard drives? No, they must’ve lost their polarity by the second millennia. Data tapes? The tapes themselves probably crapped out before they lost polarity. Dammit, what else is there?”

“What are you looking for?” Aevar asked.

“Trying to figure out the best way to recover all this,” the Empress said. “Oh, I know!”

She ran off into the wings of the laboratory, rummaging through the book shelves, a Custode at her heels. Uce stealthily walked up to Aevar.

“Is the Master of Mankind supposed to be this…” he struggled to find the right word. “This brusque?”

“We think that the endless millennia of isolation might have had some adverse effects,” Croan said.

“Ah-hah!” From the corner of the laboratory, the Emperor ran back, a black binder in her hand. “Long shot here, baby. You better work, daddy needs a new pair of shoes.”

She paused, then looked down at her breasts.

“Make that _mamma_ needs a new pair of shoes,” she said. Muttering something about her new feminine form under her breath, she unzipped the binder and flipped it open, revealing sheets and sheets of silver-ish discs. They were kept in a thin-layer of plastic, and were about the size of a mortal’s palm, maybe a bit larger.

“The Hel are those?” Aevar asked, staring at the strange disks.

The Empress ignored him, opening a panel on the logic-engine and loaded a disc.

“Would the Archmagos happen to know what those items were?” Croan asked, turning to the gaggle of tech priests.

“No, but I have the sense that I have at least heard of them,” Uce said. “But it looks like truly ancient technology, perhaps something from before the Heresy.”

“Got _that_ right,” the Emperor mumbled. A spinning sound was heard, and she hacked away at the keyboard wildly, spitting out commands. “Come on, come on, come on…”

“If it is a treasure from beyond the Heresy, than why is such a relic being used?” The Archmagos gasped.

“Tools are meant to be used,” Aevar said. “It is their purpose.”

“It is a lost relic!”

“A relic that wants to be used,” he replied. “Would you deny a child from walking?”

“No, but what does—“

“Boom!” The Empress cried, pumping her fists in the air. “I got Linux on this bitch!”

The tech-priests crowded towards the terminal. The screen didn’t show the traditional green text of the machine-spirit, but rather a warm, orange-hued screen with folders and icons stacked vertical on the left-hand side.

“And who says optical media is dead?” The Empress cheered. “Live CDs all the way! _Still_ going strong after ten thousand years!”

“What is this?” Croan asked. “This is not the usual form of the machine spirit.”

“It’s a live CD,” the Empress said. “What do you do when the boot drive is fucked? Boot from _another_ drive.”

The Emperor’s fingers were a blur as he hacked away at the keyboard. Lines of code ran along the screen, when from across the room a tech priest yelped. The screen he was looking at flashed, then began reactivating itself.

“Is…is that dead machine resurrecting itself?” He gasped.

“It is,” Legato said, stunned. “Can the Emperor be resurrecting it?”

Across the room, the second terminal began activating itself. The tech priests immediately ran over to it to observe. With a few effortless strides, Aevar and Croan followed them.

Scrolling across the screen were unfamiliar text; it was in one of the ancient languages, but even in a different language, they knew what was happening. They had seen it a million times in their training on the red dust of Mars; it was the Rites of Reactivation.

“The Emperor is restoring the machine-spirit to life,” Uce gasped. “He is—she is bringing it back from the dead. Oh, mysterious machine-spirit, praise be to you and the Emperor, and the strange, ancient being of yours that is known as ‘Linux.’”

More and more logic-engines began reactivating themselves. They passed through their activation stages, and flipped to their ready state, almost as if they were brand new, fleshly forged machines instead of millennia old creations.

“Oh, Emperor, please enlighten us,” Uce said. “What was that ancient chant that you have recited? How was it able to restore functionality to these dead machines?”

“’Cus Linux is the best kernel of all time,” she replied. “Tried to get you Mechanicus guys to recognize it when I first retook Mars, but you were so dead-set in your ways. That was part of our deal: I stop trying to force Linux on ‘em, and they help me build shit.”

“I can’t see why,” Uce said. “If this is capable of revitalizing dead systems…”

“No, it didn’t revitalize,” the Empress corrected. “It’s just a recovery tool. Since _somebody_ here wasn’t performing regular system maintenance like they _should_ have been…” The Empress glared at the Mechaicus, “they were pretty much frozen. So I ran some recovery commands and stabilized their boot-processes. Basic stuff. Still means I lost all this fucking work.”

She typed away, pulling up smaller screens and flipping through information.

“Or not,” she gaped. “Science-damned, Led _fuck-mothering_ Zeppelin, would you look at this!”

Aevar was able to loom over the tech-priests as they pressed in close to the screen. Two Custodes gently placed the butts of their spears on the nearest priests, keeping them a good distance away from the Empress.

On the screen were endless logs. The format was foreign, but data was data, and if the Mechanicus was good at one thing and one thing only, it was recognizing data. Row after row, icons filled the screen, followed by date entries. The Empress moved down the list in a blur, but there were always more files.

“Those things weren’t dead,” she said. “They weren’t even frozen.” She closed the window and pulled up another with a few short commands that rattled the keyboard. “Bullshit! Look at that event viewer! It still shows daily scheduled backups!”

The alien screen showed some kind of information, and Aevar knew he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t place it.

“They weren’t dead; the file managers just crapped out! They were _still_ saving after being left alone,” she gasped. “I never thought it’d stand up like this; there are over ten thousand years of data on this. Damn, now I feel better about over-building the damn backup systems; this thing nearly filled two-hundred and fifty-six yottabytes.”

“What were you measuring?” Croan asked.

“Examinations on the web way,” the Empress said, flipping back to the data-logs. “We got a nice entrance way here on Terra, but I could never get the damned thing to stabilize. That’s why I had to put so much of my effort into controlling it. The Throne was just a blunt-force tool to make it to work; once I had it open, I could figure out a way to get it to stabilize. But this…this could give me all the info I need to actually _do_ something about it.”

“You could repair the web way?” Aevar asked.

“Hell yea! Well, maybe not repair, but definitely close. That means I can stop using up all my energy keeping it closed, start focusing on other things.”

“It must have been a terrible burden,” Uce said.

“For the first few millennia,” the Emperor said. “Fortunately, a steady diet of psykers adds power to me. A wise man once said, ‘compound interest is the most powerful force in the galaxy.’ And _fuck,_ he was right.”

“You mean to say that you have been absorbing the souls of the psykers offered to you?”

“That’s how the Throne works. Well, the quick and dirty version, anyways. Basically, someone’s gotta pay the price to stay alive, and the psykers are used instead of me. But in the process, I get their little power. After a couple hundred years, it’s nothing. But ten thousand? It’s compound interest; you get the idea.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to see if I can close this damn warp hole. Ten thousand years’ worth of data…finding patterns and cause/effects should be easy.”

“We should return to work for the Lamenters,” Croan said.

“Yea, probably a good idea,” Aevar said. He didn’t add that he was getting tired of looking at the person who stole his little girl’s body.

 

* * *

 

The pipe glowed a dull red as it was pulled from the forge and locked into place. Hissing with effort, Maeva pushed her cybernetic arm harder, bending the metal tube further. The dull-red metal didn’t easily yield to her, so she pushed harder.

“Is it supposed to be doing that?” Helfist asked, pointing to the junction she was trying to form. In her haste, the fragile metal tube had bent, pinching itself shut. It was ruined.

“Fekke!” The tube was supposed to carry wires for the suit. “Fekke!” She pried the tube from its holder and threw it across the forge room.

“I’ll let you yell it out,” he said, turning towards the exit.

Picking up a hammer with her cybernetic hand, she heaved it across the forge room. With her augmented strength, it rocketed across the ship’s forge. A blur caught her eye; Geist had caught the rocketing hammer.

“It would be most unwise to damage forge equipment,” she said.

“Fekke tha’,” Maeva hissed. “I’m fekkin’ pissed.”

“This one can see,” the assassin said. “May she approach you, or do you wish to have time alone?”

“I don’t think I can take time ‘lone,” Maeva said, leaning against the anvil. Geist walked over to her, setting the hammer down gently and sitting next to her.

“You are worrying about Laura?” She asked.

“Wha’ tipped ya off?” Maeva said. “Just seein’ her in th’ Throne room, screamin’ as tha’ light poured outta her eyes an’ mouth an’…an’…an’ screamin’…”

The assassin put an arm around her, and Maeva broke down.

“An’ seein’ her sittin’ there when it’s done, itchin’ like mad,” she cried. “An’ not answerin’ ta her name, hearin’ her talk in a different voice…”

“You are not the only one who is suffering because of that,” Geist said. “Please forgive this one, but she needs to tell you something. Back at Dimmimar, this one was tasked with infiltrating the heretic’s ranks. But there was one thing that her training, neither her Krieg training nor her assassin training, allowed her to say. In the attack, her attacks, she felt something that she has never felt before. She still does not understand it. It was a…almost a fear.”

“It’s normal ta be scared in war,” Maeva said. “Wha’ ya gotta do is not let it get ta ya.”

“No, you do not understand. Both Krieg training and assassin conditioning completely removes the ability for the operative to feel fear. This one is incapable of it. But what nearly paralyzed her was the thought of not seeing you, of not seeing Laura, again. And this one should have told you so.”

“Damn, Geist, I already know tha’.”

“No, no you do not,” she hissed. She paused, taking a breath before continuing, either collecting her thoughts or to find the right way to convey herself.

“The things this one has done, what she _should_ have done. She should have killed you long ago, before Parsef had ordered your death upon Laura’s birth. You should have died from her omission, when we met on Nebakenezer during the Ork attack. But…but this one could not let that happen.

“She saw you, and spent time with you, and she could not imagine anything else. It is a greedy thought, one that has driven her to commit acts of blasphemy. She…she ignored an order for you. And order! From an Inquisitor!”

The assassin began pulling off her mask.

“This one…I—I could not imagine life without you or Laura, and I don’t want to.”

Maeva stared at Geist. She had never seen her true face before. It was either covered with her mask, or she was in a disguise. Her face, like the rest of her natural skin, was pale and gaunt, either from her near-endless time in her assassin’s synthskin, or because of her birthright as a Krieger. Her lips were similarly gaunt, and were thin things, nearly melding into her skin with hardly a trace. But her eyes were finer, lacking the round edges of a normal Fenrisian’s.

“I couldn’t think of a way to tell you that,” she said, tears dotting her eyes. “I just couldn’t. There have been things in this one’s, my, life that were nothing but pain and agony. More than you could ever believe. There were times when I thought it would be the death of me, and I welcomed that.

“But if I would have known that I would meet you, to have been able to meet Laura, to be with the both of you, I would have gladly asked to bear that pain again. And I would have asked for more if it meant more time to spend with the two of you.”

Maeva reached out for Geist, squeezing her like her life depended on it. Geist was only too willing to return it.

“They took our girl from us,” Maeva sobbed.

“They did.”

“We need ta find a way ta get her back.”

Geist paused, struggling with herself.

“Is tha’ yer conditionin’?”

“Yes, it is,” she croaked. “The Emperor has risen. That is all that should matter. But for me, it isn’t. We need to save Laura.”

“Is yer conditionin’ tellin’ ya ta report me?”

“Y-yes, it is,” Geist said, struggling with the words. “It’s painful to overcome, but I will never bend to it. Having you is more than I ever need. Having you and Laura is a dream come true.”

Maeva broke the desperate embrace, looking her dead in the eyes. Geist’s eyes sparkled, both from emotion and from their passion and drive.

“Will ya fight yer conditionin’ ta help me get our girl back?”

“For you?” Geist smiled. “Anything.”

 

* * *

 

The words wormed their way through the gray matter of her brain, driving deeper and deeper.

Silence was a memory, one that was fading with each passing moment. Laura tried to remember her life on Dimmimar, but with the omnipresent chattering, thinking was hard. She was always being distracted by a half-heard word, or the shifting fog-like imagery, pulled in a million directions.

No, she couldn’t let herself be distracted. She shook her head, banged it against what felt like the ground. She was curled up into a ball, trying to get the damn words out of her head, or at least reclaim her own mind for herself. But she couldn’t be weak.

“Spirits, grant me strength,” she began in the tongue of her mother’s home. “In my hour of need, strengthen me. Hold my thread tight so I may bring ruin to our enemies.”

She had never been to Fenris. She wasn’t one of them. But it was all she had.

Opening her mind, the overwhelming power pushed down on her, smothering her, suffocating her. It was all-encompassing, all-consuming. It was everywhere. Even the ‘floor’ she laid on was made of the same damn power. It was like trying to walk on the sun.

But she kept at it. There had to be a way out. There had to be something. The enormous power was unrelenting, but she kept pushing, kept feeling.

Eventually, hours/day/weeks/years/seconds later, she felt it ebb, just a bit. She mentally launched herself at the slight ebb. It took everything she had, but she kept pushing. The power was slowly ebbing, and it continued to ebb. Laura could feel the pressure easing, the voices quieting, and she pushed harder. She had to get out of wherever, whatever, this Hel was.

 

* * *

 

The Throne room was in a state of complete disrepair. Even though Maeva never set foot in it before, it was obvious to see that everything was torn up and tossed about. She thought the Throne was big before, but seeing it being disassembled made her realize just how big it was, how far it extended.

Panels were pulled up from as far away as two meters from the steps of the Throne. Wiring and cables across the room and even the ceiling were being pulled up and re-routed by servitors and the odd tech priest. Tubing and old circuit boards were being pulled out and installed. Overseeing all of it was the Empress herself, walking about in her stolen body. Following a few steps behind her was a team of Custodes.

“No, no, no, that’s the plus-five-volt rail!” She yelled at the tech-priests. “You have any idea what the amps on that rail would do to that component? Sink the voltage there. Fuck, do I have to do everything myself?”

The Empress grabbed a solder iron from the hands of the tech-priest. They watched in awe as the Empress corrected whatever mistake the poor priest had made.

“Ya seem ta be havin’ a hard time,” Maeva said, risking a chance to approach the Empress. Her heart was slamming in her chest. That bitch took her Laura.

“Damn right I do,” the body-stealer groaned. “So much work. How much did we lose? Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.”

“But Emperor, we create weapons for the entire Imperium,” the tech-priests gasped. “We create Titan legions!”

“But do you actually _know_ how to make them?” she said. “Or do you just do a bunch of stuff and pretend like you know what you’re doing?”

The tech-priests glared at her, but held their tongues.

“Though so,” the Emperor said. “Look, just do what I tell you to do, okay?”

“Can we talk?” Maeva asked.

“No, but I can talk and work,” the body-stealer said. “Now how fucking awesome is that? Being able to do two different things! Damn, I’ve been on that fucking Throne for _way_ too long.”

“Uh, yea. Just wonderin’ how _exactly_ ya got yerself off tha’ Throne?”

“Very carefully.” The Empress grabbed a welder from the hands of a servitor. “Give me that before you fry the whole damn thing. This body is a clone of me. You should know, wouldn’t you?”

Laura was her little girl; she was _more_ than an experiment. But didn’t she start out that way…?

“Anyways, the thing about clones is that they’re really, really close to the original’s brainwaves. Not _exactly_ on it, because things don’t always work out to be a perfect one-hundred percent. Tiny little details and imperfections, ya know?

“But those little fractions of a percent don’t really matter, ‘cus its good enough for government work. So when we get to be on the same brainwave, or close enough to it, all sorts of crazy shit starts happening. Sorta like when a sound wave hits resonance frequency.

“I’m there,” the Emperor said, pointing back at the Throne. “That’s my original body, and it was where I was living until recently. But this body…” she gestured to Laura’s stolen body. Maeva tried not to glare. “I can be in here ‘cus I share the same brainwave. Technically. The universe doesn’t like it, but I got enough brute force so the universe can go fuck itself.”

“An’ how does tha’ work?”

“You’re real curious, aren’t you?” The Emperor smiled.

“Er, I know all ‘bout a curious mind ‘n all tha’—“

“What do you mean, ‘a curious mind?’” The Empress wasn’t being condescending; she was genuinely curious.

“Uh, somethin’ somethin’ ‘an open mind’ll wander ta dark places.’”

“Ugh, anti-intelligence propaganda,” the Emperor groaned. “But oddly well-intentioned. That actually might have helped a lot with Logar. Maybe that’ll stay when two-point-oh kicks off.”

“Two-point wha’ now?”

“The master plan!” The Emperor said happily. “The Great Crusades 2.0! Now with more ‘great’ and less ‘treason.’”

“You mean to re-start the Crusade?” A Custode asked.

“Duh,” the body-stealing Emperor said. “Humanity used to rule the stars. Our empire went from one end of the known universe to the other. Ain’t no one had shit on us, ain’t no one. Then the Age of Strife happened, and knocked our shit in the dirt. If humanity is going to survive, if we’re going to _thrive,_ we need to reclaim our old place as the rulers of the heavens. And to do that, we need to launch a new Crusade.”

“What will the Crusade aim to achieve?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the Emperor grinned. “The High Lords want to have a big meeting, and I have to get this Crapper up to par to actually seal the damn web way breach to help my poor Custodes out with their warp battle below us. _Then_ maybe I can actually leave the damn Palace without creating a new tear in reality and actually start doing some shit! Oy! You there! Put that down!”

The Emperor ran off to yell at a poor tech-priest. Maeva gritted her teeth. She needed to know more about what this magick was that was stealing her daughter away from her.

“If you grounded that cable there, you’d short the whole damn thing out,” the Empress said. “Dammit, we’re working on the backbone here, not just some fringe PCB board. Fuck.”

“Wha’ happened ta th’ girl who had th’ body ‘fore ya?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” the Emperor said dismissively. “Hey, hey, hey, I think they’re all done.”

Maeva realized that many of the servitors had stopped working. They stood, idly and at the ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’re at our launch window,” the Emperor grinned.

“What’s gonna happen now?” Maeva asked.

“I’mma power cycle this damn thing for ten seconds, and then when it kicks on, it’ll help me crash the web way entrance point to close it,” the Emperor said, walking to the top of the Golden Throne where his/her original decaying body sat. “With my ten-millennia psyker-only diet, I should have enough power to seal it, and the Throne should magnify it enough to make the seal permanent. At least, that’s the plan. Custodes, call your brother back from the warp breach; the whole damn thing’s coming down.”

“We are ready, sire.”

Maeva heard the sound of a mighty switch being throne, and the lights that fed the Throne died. Tense seconds ticked by, and she felt something in the bottom of her stomach.

“Th’ fuck is tha’?” Absentmindedly, she made the ward of aversion on her neck.

“Don’t worry, it’s just the warp spilling through the web way portal,” the Empress yelled back.

“What? The Immaterium is here?” A Custode demanded. Suddenly, they were all holding their spears at the ready, scanning the room for enemies.

“Hey, ease up there, I got this,” the Emperor said, breathing heavily. “I’m holding the portal closed, but a little bit of warp-stuff might slip through. Ugh, doing this without the Throne is so much harder. Fuck.”

Maeva could have sworn she heard someone laugh. She spun around, her heart hammering; not from the stress of having to face the body-stealing Emperor, but from terror. The Custodes were hearing something as well; they turned and spun in place, looking at the shadows.

“Who goes there?” One bellowed. “In the name of the Emperor, answer me!”

“It’s th’ fuckin’ warp.” Maeva spat. Even spitting felt wrong, somehow. Like it tasted different. She watched the gob of spit waver in midair, then trail off to the far side of the room.

In the center of the room, tendrils of ether began forming. They shifted colors, first from violet, then to red and blue, then back to violet and then to green. The colors were beautiful. Maeva couldn’t take her eyes off them, no matter how much she tried. She couldn’t even blink.

Against her neck, she drew the ward of aversion. It seemed to burn as she traced it, but it made her blink, it made her break sight with the tendrils.

“What madness is this?” A Custode yelled, hacking at the air. He swung at nothing, but something started bleeding. Suddenly Maeva was crying, as if some unknown force or sound was causing her to break into tears.

“The Golden Throne must be restored!” A tech-priest yelled. “Turn it back on!”

“Four Mississippi…” the Empress said, “five Mississippi…”

“Th’ fuck’s a Mississippi…?” Maeva said. At least, she thought she said it. It came out garbled. There was blood in her mouth.

Something grabbed her shoulder. This time she did scream. It was some malformed shadow, four-armed and one-legged. It had no teeth. It had no face. It only had those arms and leg, but Maeva knew it was grinning at her.

“To the Emperor,” the Custodes yelled. “We must protect him—her.”

“Emperor, we beg you, please restore the Throne!” A tech-priest yelled. His servo-arms were tearing his eyes out. The blood dribbled up his face, falling towards the ceiling.

“Eight…nine…”

The shadow-thing that grabbed Maeva screamed. Hearing it made her brain hurt, as if just listening to it was forcing her to listen to an impossible sound, one beyond her comprehension.

“Ten!”

The heavy switch was thrown, and the Throne re-ignited itself. Suddenly the air seemed to return to the room, casting the shadows out. Maeva found herself gasping for breath; how she lost her breath she didn’t know. But things became right again.

The blood from the tech-priest suddenly fell to the floor, like it should have. The shadow-thing disappeared, as it should have. And the Custodes realized they were swinging at thin air.

“There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” The Emperor grinned, walking down from the Throne. Maeva was clutching at her throat like she was trying to tear it open.

“Aw yea, feel that power. Yea, this’ll give me enough juice to shut the web way,” she said, sitting at the base of the Throne. “Just gotta focus and concentrate, and this’ll all be over.”

The Empress took a deep breath, and for the first time that Maeva had seen, was actually quiet. The lights on the Throne seemed to shine brighter, the inner workings hummed louder, and the air seemed to change, but it was nothing compared to when the Throne was shut down. She sat perfectly still, with posture perfect.

_“…Laura?”_ Maeva quietly asked. She spoke Juvik; her little girl _had_ to hear her. _“Ya there?”_

Maeva saw her little girl’s arm start to shake. Soon, her entire body was shaking.

“To the Emperor,” the Custodes yelled.

_“Laura!”_ Maeva screamed, diving towards her.

Suddenly, the Empress was gasping for breath, taking massive gasps of air, as if they were drowning. Maeva reached the Empress just as the Custodes did.

_“M-mom?”_

_“Oh, Laura, I’m here,”_ she cried, reaching out to her little girl. The Custode tried to block her from reaching out, but Laura was faster than them. She grabbed Maeva’s cybernetic arm and clamped down on it.

_“Mom? Oh, Throne, are you there?”_ Her Laura was terrified.

_“I’m here, little one,”_ Maeva said. _“I ain’t never leavin’ ya.”_

_“Please, keep me here,”_ Laura cried, squeezing her arm tighter. _“I can’t go back there. The voices, the damn voices…”_

_“Wha’ voices?”_ Her arm began groaning under the pressure that Laura was putting on it. _“Baby, can ya watch my arm?”_

_“They’re always there,”_ Laura cried. _“They just keep talking, all the damn time! I can’t get them to stop, I can’t get them to let me go.”_

_“Laura, my arm…”_

_“I can’t go back there,”_ Laura ranted. _“I don’t even know where ‘there’ is. Please, can we go back home? I’ll join the Sisters of Battle, I’ll be a page to Aunt Lynia, I’ll say my prayers, please…”_

Maeva’s metal arm cracked, the armor bending and shattering.

_“Laura!”_ She pulled against her girl, but her grip was inescapable.

_“Make it stop, please make it all stop…”_

Her arm finally gave out, first at the wrist. The metal twisted and snapped, folding like tin foil. Maeva pulled, but it was still firmly rooted to her body. A Custode stepped forward, bringing his spear down. It sliced through the metal, and Maeva fell backwards. Looking up, she saw Laura bringing the arm closer into her, squeezing it until it shattered and folded into itself. If she was still attached to it, she would be crushed.

_“I don’t want to go,”_ she cried. _“Don’t make me go back. You can’t make me go…”_

Suddenly, Laura bolted upright.

“You feel that?” She asked in High Gothic, a bright smile on her face, as if nothing was wrong or nothing had happened.

“…Feel what?” A Custode asked.

“Exactly! Nothing!” She said, jumping up. The clattering of Maeva’s destroyed arm made Laura blink. “The hell happened there?”

It was the Empress. The damned, body stealing Empress.

“Huh. Looks like you got a bit too close,” she said, looking at Maeva. “Sorry ‘bout that. But the good news! Got the web way fully sealed!”

“It is truly sealed?” A tech priest asked.

“Yup! Now I can use my psykic powers for something _other_ than holding the door. Might mean that I’ll have to find another opening to the web way once I get the damned project restarted, but baby steps! Now, did the High Lords have something to say?”

“They are planning a meeting for a few hours from now,” a Custode said.

“Awesome. That gives me enough time to take a shower,” the Empress said, sauntering off, running her damned mouth nonstop. “All this hard work builds up a right proper sweat. Not that I don’t mind…”

Maeva watched the damn body stealer until a showed fell over her.

“Are you okay?” Maeva looked up. She was so focused on Laura, she didn’t realize that it was Kemuel that had cut her arm for her.

“No, I ain’t fuckin’ okay,” she spat.

“Hold your tongue, you are not in a friendly room,” Kemuel said sharply. “You must be careful on Terra.”

“I don’t give a shit ‘bout—“

“Your honesty and loyalty to the Emperor is well known,” Kemuel said loudly. “We thank you for the sacrifice of your arm.”

Maeva glared at him.

“The High Lords have eyes everywhere,” he whispered. “Watch yourself.”

“But wha’ ‘bout my girl?”

Kemuel was silent as he watched the Empress saunter off.

“That is something that I cannot help you with,” he said sadly. “Please, go back. Do not give the High Lords any reason to suspect you.”

“Fer wha’?”

“For anything and everything,” Kemuel snapped. “Please, I have to go. Take care of your arm.”

He stood and returned to his position of watching over the Throne. Maeva spat and got to her feet, looking at the wreckage of her arm. Damn the Emperor, she was going to get her girl back.


	32. Reunion

“What’s going on?” The Emperor said cheerfully as the door to the meeting room was pushed open. “How’s everyone doing today?”

The High Lords of Terra sat at the able, surrounded by dozens of aides, each barely restraining the urge to glare at the Emperor. Instead, they glared at Aevar, who followed her to the table. Croan and Legato followed him, flanked by a team of Custodes. The Fabricator-General was one of only ones to look at him with a look that did not resemble out-right hostility.

“We’re doing good then?” The Empress continued, making her way to the head of the table. “Great. Guess we can skip the chit-chat; you’ve all been asking for this, so let’s get this show on the road.”

Aside from the Fabricator-General, there was a single Sister of Battle of whom seemed impartial to Aevar. Standing with the Ecclesiarchy, her robes marked her as the Convent Prioress, the equivalent to the Great Wolf or a Chapter Master, only the head of the entire Order of the Sisters of Battle.

While the High Lords gave him the stink eye, the Prioress looked at Aevar with what seemed to be respect. Aevar wondered if Lynia had put in a good word for him about the defense of Dimmimar, and if she did, he wondered how many good words she used. Dammit, he missed the old bat. He stood next to the Emperor, with Croan and Legato standing next to him.

“Any reason we’re here?” Aevar asked the Emperor.

“What? Oh, right. You’re here ’cus you’re the ones with their heads least shoved up their asses,” the Empress replied. “Competency is its own punishment, ya know? No good deed goes unpunished.”

“We still have work to do for the Lamenters. We’re only halfway done.”

“Think of this as a break,” she said. “A much-needed break. Besides, you know the Truth. That’s a great starting point.”

“The Truth?” Suddenly Aevar’s hearts skipped a beat.

“Yup. Come on, we’ve got a show to put on. What, you didn’t think I’d see you in my library? I’ve had an eye on you for a while.”

“But wait—“

“Anyone got anything they’d like to get out before we start?” She said loudly. All the High Lords grudgingly looked up. “No? Awesome. Now, I understand that you’ve all wanted to have a meeting with me, right? Probably to discuss how things are going to go now that I’m off the Golden Crapper, right?”

“Yes, you are,” one of the High Lords said. Aevar needed to rely on his badge of office to place him; he was the Lord Commander Militant of the Imperial Guard. “But a more pressing issue requires our immediate attention. The Thirteenth Black Crusades.”

“Oh yea, the shit show up in the north of the galaxy. What of it?”

“It is consuming all of our forces,” the Lord Commander said. “We have nearly sixty battle fleets of the Imperial Navy, twenty-eight Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, Imperial Guard regiments from over eighteen systems and five full orders of the Adeptus Sororitas, to say nothing of the help given by the Priests of Mars.”

“We have four Titan legions in place,” the Fabricator-General said, “as well as nearly countless members of the Skitarii.”

“Alright. I’ll read up on it, and step on out to give everyone a bump in command,” she said. “That all?”

“Regarding the wars that are besetting us, yes,” the Lord Commander of the Imperial Guard said. “But we must spread word of your awakening, your return, to the Imperium.”

“It shall be a day of great rejoicing.” This time it was a Cardinal of the Holy Synod, a member of the Ecclesiarchy. Aevar’s blood suddenly ran cold at the mere thought of the holy man speaking. He locked eyes with Croan and Legato; they were clueless. He should have told them years ago. “We shall instruct every world to light a candle and pray—“

“Okay, hold it, stop, pause, arête, all that shit,” the Empress said, waving her hands to get everyone to stop. No, this couldn’t be happening. “Now, I understand that things have been done for a _very_ long time, but there has to be a few changes. _That_ is one of them.”

“Forgive me, but what is ‘that?’”

“The word you just said. I ain’t gonna have it.”

“Emperor, please,” Aevar begged. “You can’t.”

“…You mean ‘pray?’” the Cardinal asked.

“Yea, that,” the Empress said, squirming. “I don’t like the P-word. Don’t say it. Ever. Like, for real, don’t say it ever again.”

“Then what shall the people do?” The Cardinal said, laughing nervously. “They need to know that their god—“

“Don’t. Say. That. Word.”

The Empress didn’t yell. She never moved her mouth, but the words rang like thunder. Aevar could taste it in his mouth; it was the immaterium, the very warp itself. The Empress was using her psykic might to yell, to put all the emphasis on her words. The High Lords were nearly thrown from their chairs to the ground; many of their aides were.

It was like a miniature hurricane had briefly materialized in the room, blowing scrolls and stationary aside. Even the Custodes were shaken, both physically and apparently mentally. They were hesitant to get to their feet.

“I take that back,” the Emperor said, returning to her normal, stolen, voice. But the bitter resentment was still there. “You can say the P-word. Maybe I’ll forgive you for that. But you _don’t_ say that damned G-word.”

“G-g-go—“ the Cardinal stammered. A withering glare from the Empress shut him up before he could finish talking.

The Prioress was next to try and talk. “But your worsh—“

“Don’t say that damned work, either,” the Emperor barked. The Prioress respectfully lowered her head.

“But you—but Emperor, word of your return has to be spread,” the Prioress said.

“You can say I’m off the Golden Crapper, but I don’t want anyone to light any candles, get on their knees, and…and _think_ really damn hard about me!” She spat. “I got a damned long list, and _that_ is right smack dab at the very tippy-top.”

“You mean…but what shall the Ecclesiarchy do instead?” The aged Sister of Battle gasped. “Why do you resent this so?”

“Because it ain’t true.”

Aevar’s hearts finally skipped several beats. For a handful of seconds, the room was painfully quiet.

“I’m sorry, but what is it that you mean?” The Prioress asked. The truth had yet to sink in.

“This whole… _worship_ …thing is a bunch of shit,” the Empress said. She said worship as if she was pulling a tooth. “I don’t want any of it.”

“But the Lectitio Divinitatus—“

“Is a bunch of horse crap that my damned fool son Lorgar came up with!”

Hearing the Emperor no longer wanted to be worshipped was one thing, but hearing the truth of the very foundation of the Imperial Cult was yet another.

“Wow. That came out with a _lot_ more venom that I wanted it to,” the Empress said, unaware that every single member of the High Lords of Terra was staring at her with utter shock. “I’m sorry about that. Bit of a touchy subject, I hope you can understand.”

The Prioress was speechless. Her mouth hung open as she tried to process what she had heard. The Cardinals nearly fainted, and the High Lords were struggling to understand.

“The Lectitito Divinitatus…is…is a lie?” The Lord Commander stammered.

“Front to back,” the Empress confirmed. “Might make a good door stop or a paperweight.”

“Empress, why are you telling us this?” A Cardinal shrieked. “The keystone of our faith! The very bedrock of the Imperium!”

“Faith won’t save you, it’ll only lead you to dark places.”

“Why?” He shrieked, unable to process anything. “Why??”

“I did the whole ‘don’t do _blank_ because I said so’ thing, and you know what it got me?” She asked. “Ten damned millennia on the Golden Crapper. Now, insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, and despite what many of you think, I am not insane.

“Therefore, I’m doing something _different,_ so I can get a _different_ result. And that different thing is this: ask me a question, I’ll tell you no lies.”

 “But…but the people, the Imperium, we are driven by our faith in you!” The Prioress yelled.

“Then put your faith in science,” the Empress replied. “That’s a whole lot less likely to lead you off and get you to make blood sacrifices.”

“No,” a Cardinal said. “No, I refuse this.”

“Refuse what?” The Empress asked politely.

“I refuse what you say,” he spat. “My faith is my shield, and it is greater than whatever…whatever _lies_ you spout.”

“Careful with your words,” the Empress warned in a sing-song voice.

“Cardinal, please,” Aevar begged. “You must—“

“No, I will not!” He yelled. He pointed a finger at the Emperor. “You are a god! You cannot persuade me so!”

“Don’t say the G-word,” she replied frostily.

“I will call you what I will,” he said. “Deny your own divinity all you want, it only strengthens my belief that you are a god.”

“Shit, the G-word _and_ the D-word,” the Empress said, trying to keep a smile on her face. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Think happy thoughts. Bunnies and kitties. Come on, Biggie, you can do it…”

She took a second to compose himself before smiling at the Cardinal.

“Look, your loyalty is great. It’s _really_ awesome that you can remain loyal even after all that. But you’re backing the wrong horse in this race, buddy. Now I need you to stop praying, to stop believing, and _stop_ using the damned G-word.”

“Never,” he spat. “My faith is my life. You cannot cast it away. You are the God-Emperor, nothing can persuade me.”

“Ha ha, you used it again,” the Emperor tensely laughed. “I get really, really, _really_ fucking pissed off when I hear that word. It makes me really angry because it reminds me that all the hard work I did with the Great Crusades 1.0 was ultimately for nothing. I do not like hearing that word, I do not like being called that word, and I would greatly appreciate it if you stop using that word.”

“My faith is my shield, and you are the illumination that protects mankind,” the Cardinal preached. “You are my god.”

“Okay, that’s it, no more Mister Nice Biggie.” The Empress paused, looking down her chest. “Make that _Miss_ Biggie. If I-messages don’t work, maybe a threat would. I gave you the carrot, you’re choosing the stick. Plata o Plomo.

“So here it is: if you call me the G-word one more time, I’ll kill you with my brain. My brain.” She pointed to her head. “And now that I got the web way closed and I’m not sitting on top of a new possible Eye of logic-damned Terror, I have a _lot_ of power at my disposal.”

“Say what you will. For me, you will always remain the one true god—“

The air seemed to crack. Aevar could taste the raw psykic power of the Emperor as she mentally lifted the Cardinal in the air; the taste of the immaterium was overwhelming. The Cardinal yelped, then began screaming as his toes broke.

His feet began curling, crushed as they bent backwards, as if he was a portion of dough that was being rolled into a pastry. He screamed as his toes were rolled, then his feet, and then his shins. The air was filled with his cries, but the sounds of his bones shattering was much louder. They were being ground to dust as his legs were slowly crushed and added to the roll of human flesh.

Eventually, his legs were completely rolled up, and his pelvis was next. The Cardinal was out of breath, screaming endlessly, but he only truly stopped screaming when his pelvis was ground to a powder, his organs to pulp, and his spine began being crushed. His mouth opened and closed, until it was finally pushed open from an unseen force.

By the time his rolled limbs reached the bottom of his ribcage, his open mouth was split open, and a wave of blood shot from his mouth. The surrounding High Lords were finally snapped from their stupor, and jumped back from the regurgitating blood. What followed looked like shit and piss, and then the first red, wet organ burst free and fell to the table. It was not the last.

Aevar realized that the Cardinal’s organs were being pushed out of his body. It was as if the Cardinal was a tube of gel, and the Emperor was wringing out every last bit.

The massive roll of the Cardinal’s body finally reached his chin, and the last wave of blood and guts finally stopped. He fell from the air, landing in the puddle of blood, piss, shit and crushed organs with a wet slap. Without the might of the Emperor’s mind holding it in place, the wet sack of skin that used to be his body began unrolling in the slowest, most grotesque way possible.

“Who’s that man’s aide?” The Empress asked. It was so casual, he might have been asking what the weather was like.

“Anyone…?” The Empress called. The High Lords seems to come out of their stupor and looked at the Emperor with undisguised fear. “Come on, who’s next on the line of succession? Understudy! Where you at?”

One man was pushed forward. He was a simple priest, and trembled like a leave in a hurricane, eyes stuck on the ghastly remains of his master.

“It looks like your boss had a terrible accident,” the Empress said cheerfully. “You know what that means?”

“P-p-p-p-p-p—“

“That’s right,” the Empress said, “you got a promotion!”

“Please don’t kill me…”

The Empress either didn’t hear him, or ignored him.

“Now, I have a few recommendations for living a long, happy, healthy, productive life,” she said. “One: don’t use the G-word.”

A sharp, acidic smell floated in the air, followed by the smell of feces. The man had both pissed and shat himself.

“Two: don’t use the F-word.” The Empress ticked off her fingers. “And three: don’t use the P-word. Got it?”

The man trembled uncontrollably, but he was shaking his head ‘yes.’

“Great! Now, for the rest of you.” The High Lords recoiled. “I know things are gonna be hard with these rules, so I’ll give you all a week to get this out of your system. That’s one-week worth of slip-ups, capisce?

“Next up, war. I still got a few things to clear up around here, but I’d like to get the fuck outta Dodge ‘cus I am _dying_ to get out and stretch my legs proper. Lord Commander, do we have a fleet in orbit? Oy! Lord Commander!”

A Custode stepped forward, tapping the man with the butt of his spear; the Lord Commander was staring at the remains of the Cardinal.

“Uh, yes, yes, we do,” he stammered. His eyes never left the mess of human skin and blood.

“Great! They’ve got a week to get ready. Wait a second; Aevar, you said some Space Marines were here, right?”

“Yes, the Lamenters,” Aevar said, trying not to stare at the puddle of former human.

“Awesome, they can come with us. That gives you time to finish your debt payment, right?”

He tore his eyes from the former Cardinal, only to see the Empress staring intently at him again. His hair stood on end, and he tasted the warp again. The Emperor was scanning him.

“For real, what _are_ you?” She demanded.

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered.

“Great. Another mystery. Eh, I’ll figure that out later. I have a week, should be able to do something about that. Speaking of which, this week also gives me time to get my armor up to snuff. These things need their own plating.” She poked at her breasts. “Then maybe I can figue out what to do with the Mechanicus to get their shit in order. Yea, that’ll give me something to do, and it’ll let the army know I’m coming; I’d like to meet with the commanders to really kick this shit into high gear. Any other business? No one? Great.”

With that, the Emperor got up, and cheerfully walked for the door.

“This is awesome,” she grinned. “Next stop, better fucking wargear. This is going great. One meeting, and I got nearly four things crossed off the list.” She began sauntering out of the room. The Custodes followed, but they seemed to lag behind by half a step. “Maybe I can get two or three more things crossed off this day. Oh, and someone clean that up.”

She jerked her thumb back at the remains of the Cardinal.

“Come on, let’s go,” Aevar whispered to Croan.

“Go? Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” he said. “The High Lords didn’t like me in the first place; now they must hate me something awful. That means we’re all on their shit list. Get Legato.”

“I have him,” Croan said. Aevar realized that the tiny priest had fainted; Croan kept a hand on him, holding him up.

“Then let’s get out of here. Now.”

 

* * *

 

Julas stood in Paresf’s borrowed chamber. His new metallic arm was still foreign to him; he was unconsciously rubbing it.

“It is the greatest news that we could have hoped for,” he said to the busy Inquisitor. Parsef snorted as he scribbled orders down. “The return of the Emperor.”

“And he’s off his damn rocker,” Parsef said. “How would the citizens of the Imperium like to hear that they are being led by a madman? A madman in control of a woman’s body?”

Julas bit his tongue. It was so strange, so _perverse_ , to see Laura’s body being used by an unseen force. He had never heard of the Emperor controlling another’s body. Suddenly he realized how much he missed Laura.

“Bad and worse. Bad and worse, all the damn time. The Emperor has awoken, but is hopelessly mad. But we have to have a mad Emperor, otherwise we might have a _dead_ Emperor. Bad and damned worse…”

The doors to the room opened. It was Geist, out of her disguise.

“Geist, what is the meaning of this?” Parsef said. “Why are you out of disguise?”

“This one…she,” the assassin was stumbling over herself. “She has learned too much.”

“What have you done, assassin?” Parsef demanded.

The shaking woman took several deep breaths before talking.

“Cardinal Aannel is dead,” she finally said.

That made Parsef straighten up.

“Cardinal Aannel?” Julas said. “Of the Holy Synod of Terra? You say that a High Lord of Terra is dead? How?”

Julas finally began to realize why Parsef was so distraught by the assassin. In all the years of knowing her, Geist had never flinched, never paused, never stammered. To hear her positively stumbling over herself made him realize how uncomfortable it made Parsef. To see Geist in such a way was truly disturbing.

“Who killed the Cardinal?” Parsef demanded.

“The Emperor.”

Julas was too shocked to speak. He tried to talk, but couldn’t find the words.

“Why would the Emperor kill a holy member of the Imperial Cult?” Parsef asked.

“Because the Cardinal wouldn’t silence his beliefs,” Geist said. “The Emperor said that the…” Geist took a deep breath and spoke fast, nearly spitting out the last sentence. “The Lectitito Divinitatus is a lie, manufactured by the traitor Primarch Logar.”

It felt like the floor was pulled out from them. Faith was the cornerstone of the Imperium, the lynchpin that held billions of worlds and countless number of lives together. It was what held the Imperium together; to have it rejected, by the Emperor himself…

“It is…it is a lie?” Julas asked.

“Nothing but a lie,” Geist confirmed.

“This will destroy everything,” he mumbled.

“By the order of the Emperor, it is the truth,” the assassin said. “The Cardinal rejected it, saying that the Emperor was a go—divine.”

“The Emperor rejects His godhood?” Julas mumbled.

“The Empress hates that word,” Geist said, nearly yelled. “She crushed the Cardinal with her psychic might when he refused to silence his beliefs. He…the Cardinal was crushed, rolled up like a piece of paper. His organs…they shot out of his mouth…”

“There had to have been a representative of the Inquisition there,” Parsef mumbled. “I’ll need to speak to him. This, this is something that will damn us all. We have to protect this knowledge.”

“How can we protect something that comes from the Emperor’s mouth?” Julas asked.

“We will have to repress this,” Parsef said. It was clear that he was trying to convince himself that this was the right thing to do. “If the Imperium were to find that their god is no longer a god, worlds would be plunged into darkness. The Ecclesiarchy would be torn apart. The Imperial Guard would splinter, the Sisters of Battle…who knows what they would do? This can’t leave the Palace. For the greater good of the Imperium, we cannot let this stand.”

“This one must know: what if the Emperor were to stand against this action?” Geist asked. “She was insistent that no one were to pray.”

“Whatever the Empress doesn’t know can’t possibly hurt her, can it?”

Julas’ hearts were slamming in his chest. To lie to the Emperor…Holy Terra, what was happening?

Geist pulled the door to the room open, and they began making their way through the Palace, passing Custodes at nearly every junction. They were not idle. Many were taking down incense holders, prayer candles and edifices. Was the Emperor already making his will manifest?

“Custode, is cleaning part of your duty now?” Parsef asked, somehow filling his voice with authority, even a joking tone.

“Hardly. By the order of the Emperor, all candles, incense and shrines are to be removed,” the massive body guard replied. A small team of servitors followed him, taking the candle holders and placing it in a massive trash bags.

“I see. Thank you.” They turned, walking away fast. Once they were out of ear shot, he whispered to them. “We need to move faster.”

They wound their way through the Palace, making their way to the wing of the Inquisition. But they didn’t need to walk all the way to the Inquisition’s quarters; Parsef stopped outside the Throne Room.

“Grandmaster,” Parsef called out.

The man Parsef called ‘Grandmaster’ was a tall, plain looking man with blond hair. He wore the dark robes of the Inquisition and very little else. There wasn’t even an insignia to denotate his rank.

“Parsef,” the apparent Grandmaster replied. He tried to speak at a casual tone, but the nervousness of his voice betrayed him. “Have…have you heard?”

“My asset just informed me,” Parsef replied. “This is very sensitive information, one that can’t leave the Imperial Palace.”

“We are of the same mind,” the Grandmaster said. Julas realized that with his plain looks, the man could vanish into a crowd. “Faith is what keeps the Imperium spinning. We can’t let the Emperor’s wish tear us apart.”

“But the Emperor’s will cannot be perverted,” Julas said.

“Would you rather that the entire Imperium suddenly find out that it is living a lie?” The so-called Grandmaster said. “That they are following the text of a traitor Primarch?”

Julas bit his tongue. Was this the secret that the damn Blasphemer was keeping for years? How did he live with it?

“Forgive me,” he said. “But old habits are not easy to change.”

“They never are. We need to act quickly; the longer we wait, the chances of this news leaving the Palace increase. We have to nip this in the bud.”

“Is this what you feel, Parsef?” Julas asked. “The decision to do bad or worse?”

“All the damn time,” the Inquisitor sighed. He turned to the Grandmaster. “What do you need us to do?”

“To minimize the leak, we must first gather all who may have heard,” the Grandmaster said. “We need to explain to them that no word of this must be spoken of.”

As the Grandmaster spoke, the massive doors of the Throne Room groaned as they were opened. Julas’ blood ran cold as the Emperor sauntered forth, flanked by a team of Custodes. He recognized Kemuel among them, his face impassive. It was strange, to hear the Emperor talking through the voice of Maeva’s girl. It was like she was a puppet, dancing at the Emperor’s command. She was covered in grease and oil, but radiated satisfaction.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Geist bristle. Further back, the Grandmaster stood behind Parsef, making it appear that the simple Inquisitor was the lead agent.

“…total wreck,” the Emperor said in her endless chatter. “I could spend years getting this place up and running. Years. Can’t imagine how things came to this. I thought I built the damn Imperium better than that. Well, once this Crusade is over, I know what I’m doing. Hey, you’re that one Ultramarine that was hanging around the Wolf. What’s going on? You sticking to my plan?”

“We were simply trying to figure out the best way to enact your plans,” Parsef said. “The Imperium has changed since you sat upon the Throne.”

“Bitchin,’” she smiled. “Glad I got you guys working on this and not plotting your own shadowy goals.”

Julas’ hearts skipped a beat. Did the Empress know? She was the Master of Mankind, but to know what they were thinking? How could they save the Imperium from the Emperor if the Emperor knew their every thought?

“What would make you believe that?” Parsef asked, feigning hurt. If Julas didn’t know he was lying, he would have believed him.

“Look, Malcador made a group to do super-secret, dangerous things,” she said. “You’ve had ten millennia to build things up, so it wouldn’t surprise me if you got your finger in everything. Kinda reminds me of the CIA and KGB.”

“Sorry, the who?”

“Oh, never mind,” she groaned. “I know I stepped on toes in that meeting, and if there’s someone who gets antsy, it’s someone who ain’t never had their toes stepped on before. I’d like it if you could keep an eye on the High Lords, make sure they don’t do anything rash.”

“’Keep an eye on?’”

“That’s right. There’s gonna be big changes here, but first I gotta deal with this little Chaos incursion on Cadia. Can’t do that if I’m worrying about a bunch of pompous jerks all the time. Just let me know if they’re up to anything.”

“We…we can only obey.”

Julas swallowed. The Emperor was right about one thing; High Lords were not known for being accommodating. To suddenly find themselves removed from power, he could understand what the Empress feared. He tried to calm himself. They could not be found subverting her will.

“Good that you’re working for me,” she grinned, slapping Parsef on the back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have some armor to work on. Need to get out of this damn place and stretch my legs. And do something about this damned Chaos incursion. Now that I think about it…”

The Empress chattered away as she meandered on, her Custode guards never far.

“I see what you mean, Parsef.” With the Emperor gone, the apparent Grandmaster stood out from behind Parsef.

“It is bad that the Emperor was driven to batshit lunacy by millennia of isolation on the Golden Throne, but worse if he were to pass from the galaxy. But it’s _much_ worse than that if the Emperor continues his war against faith.”

“But this is something we can deal with,” the Grandmaster said. “There is still something we can work with. Julas, can we count on your help, and your discretion?”

What was his life coming to? Exile from the Ultramarines paled in comparison to plotting against the Emperor. But at the same time, something about this felt right. Being a part of something, of having rank and orders, having someone to command him…as perverse as it was, it felt _right_.

“Is this truly wise?” He asked.

“I know this is difficult for the loyal,” the Grandmaster said. “But what the Emperor doesn’t know can’t possibly hurt her. Having an Ultramarine would help further our mission.”

“Better then shattering the Imperial Cult,” Paresf added.

Yes, they couldn’t let the Cult perish. The comfort of faith could not be denied to the citizens of the Imperium. The Emperor was their shield, and the shield could never be abandoned, even when it wanted to be.

“Yes, you may,” he said.

“Excellent,” the Grandmaster said. Julas caught a subtle nod from him. He then realized that Geist was standing behind him. He spun around, seeing the assassin visibly relax, but knowing that Geist was in such a position to instantly strike him down unnerved him.

“Is my loyalty in question?” He spat.

“The loyalty of the Ultramarines is _never_ in question,” the Grandmaster said. “But these are complicated times we live in, and we much be sure. A wise man once said, ‘trust, but verify.’”

“You dare?” He demanded, bringing himself to his full height.

“I _do_ dare,” the Grandmaster shot back. For a brief second, Julas nearly felt himself backing away from the Grandmaster. Nearly. “I dare because it’s my job. And I’m _very_ good at my job.”

“I see now why the Wolves put so little trust in the Inquisition,” he said. “Very well, what is your will? How may I be of service?”

 

* * *

 

Aevar’s servo-arms held the air brush’s many cables away from him, while he carefully layered the paint onto the suit of armor.

It was not a Cataphractii pattern suit, but rather a masterfully crafted set of runic armor. The plasteel was still warm to the touch; thick, strong, and void-hardened. Underneath, the shield generator was spinning to life, testing itself before shutting down.

The power armor would be a wonder to behold, perfect for a Rune Priest, flesh mender or even a Jarl. But the Lamenters didn’t have the numbers for even a quarter of a Great Company; this suit would be for whoever was left of the Chapter, most likely a simple battle brother.

“With this, I would fear to face the Lamenters,” Croan said, behind Aevar.

“Aye, they’d be a damn terror,” he said, finishing the final layer of paint.

He looked back at the filled forge room on the battle cruiser. Dozens of similar suits of power armor stood, waiting to be presented and used. Nearly half the armor was runic armor of their own creation. The rest were the Cataphractii pattern Terminator armor.

“The poor Lamenters just might faint after seeing this,” Croan chuckled.

“They probably will. Remember when we were celebrating at Dimmimar? Damn fools looked like they were going to burst into flames. Never seen a battle brother blush like that, the coy maidens. Almost like they’ve never been thanked before.”

The door to the forge slid open, and Laura’s nearly-familiar scent wafted in. It was seconds behind the Emperor’s endless prattle echoed through the room.

“So good to actually be up and about outside of the Crapper,” she said, chewing the ear off her Custode guards. Under her arm, she carried what looked like a portfolio of sketches. “Gotta say, the warp is damn calm all of a sudden, and we haven’t even left port. Wonder what’s up with that. Hey, there are my favorite engineers!”

“Greetings, Emperor,” Croan said, bowing respectfully.

Aevar took a deep breath to steel his nerves, and turned to face the Empress. For some reason, she was scrutinizing him, almost as if she had him under a microscope.

“…Yes?”

“One of these day, I’m gonna find out what the fuck is up with you,” she said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No one’s ever said that your kind of strange?” She asked. “Not in the behavior sense, but just kinda…off? Like you got a strange glow about you? No? Ah well. Are these the thank-you-for-saving-our-asses present?”

“They are,” Croan said.

“Not bad work,” she said, looking the power armor over. “Not bad at all. Yea, you’d be good help for my own armor.”

“Are you planning your own?”

“Damn straight I am. Been thinking about it for a long time now. Can’t wait to put it to use. Speaking of armor, yo, Custodes.”

“What is your will?” The nearest Custode asked.

“That black-on-black armor is cool, but boring. You still got your awesome gold armor?”

“We do. It is kept it storage in the Palace.”

“Well, I guess it’s good we haven’t left port yet,” the Emperor said. “Get it out of storage. Black is beautiful, but too much is boring. Besides, have you seen how _awesome_ that gold armor is?”

“Is there anything that we can do?” Aevar asked. He was getting tired of seeing his little girl being moved around like a puppet.

“Yea, there’s something,” she said. “Heard you make a mean paragon blade. Think you can whip up one for me?”

“We’ll be making them by the dozen,” he said. “The Lamenters still need their weapons.”

“Awesome. For flying by the seat of your pants, you did a good job, but you missed some things. This should clear it all up.” She handed him the portfolio and he idly flipped through it. “I’d join you, but I still got some things to cross off my to-do list.”

“We better get to work,” Aevar said. The schematic for the paragon blade were perfect. He could see the complete picture, and he realized why his earlier pieces never worked. He would need to make changes to every paragon blade he made. “When do we expect to be at Cadia?”

“We’re not going to Cadia,” the Empress said.

“We are not?” Croan asked.

“Nope,” she said. “We’re going to Caliban. Or what’s left of it. Think they call it ‘the Rock’ now. Anywho, with this ‘crusade’ or whatever on my mind, it got me thinking. This is like a reunion tour.”

“’A reunion tour?’”

“Yep! And for ever tour, I gotta get the band back together. So I’m going to get Lion El’Jonson.”

“Lion El’Jonson? But he vanished in the Heresy.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” the Emperor grinned. “Come on, Custodes. Get your awesome gold armor and let’s get the fuck outta Dodge.”

 

* * *

 

The voices were never-ending, the landscapes ever shifting. It made Laura nauseous, and the voices were needling her brain in their endless chatter. She couldn’t press her ears closed to block the damned noise out, and the voices never, ever heard her.

She didn’t know how much more she could take.

“I want quiet!” She screamed. “Quiet!”

The landscape shifted again, almost as if it heard her. The next thing she realized, she was lying on the floor of what looked like a laboratory. Only a few shadowy wraiths lurked around the tables, mixing chemicals or setting up experiments, whatever work the lab was designed for.

But there were less voices here; instead of an endless deluge of chattering, there were only a handful of voices, speaking as whispers instead of shouts. And the wraiths were quiet, too. No strange, ethereal voices drifting into her skull.

Laura realized that she didn’t just feel like it was quiet, but there was a pervasive feeling of quiet in the air.

“This is just like the warp,” she muttered. “This…this has to be emotions. Memories.”

If this was a field of memories, then maybe the voices were of the person who had the memories. It could be him editing his own thoughts, adding commends or even trying to change what he remembered.

It didn’t matter. At long last, she had some means of control. She had to learn more about this place, figure out how to manipulate this strange ether she was in. Maybe then she could break free.

The laboratory started to ebb and flow, but she reached out into the endless ocean of power that it was made of, and made her demand.

“That, there,” she yelled, concentrating and pointing at the slightly-more defined wraith. “That man. Who is he?”

Like the warp, it reacted to her demand. She had to concentrate to help it along, but the images sharpened. If there was one thing that she knew how to do, it was to shape the warp. Uncle Helfist and the Grey Knights taught her well, and it seemed to help with this strange place she was in. With the sharpening images, the voices seemed to fade a little bit more.

“Damn, what a smart guy,” one voice said.

“Totally fucking insane,” said another.

“Got the best of both worlds,” yet another.

“Maybe should have been nicer to him. Could’ve gotten more out of him.”

“Should have used him a little less. Maybe pushed him a bit too far.”

The scene in front of her materialized, gaining sharpness and clarify. It was still fog, but now the shapes had clearly defined borders.

The wraith turned into a man, standing in the center of the lab. The wraiths that surrounded him were not working on anything, but were standing around, examining the strange things that were on the tables. The wraith mad spoke, and Laura had to concentrate to filter out the noise.

“Look, I apply a charge to this dish, and the other dish receives it,” the wraith man said. “I can send electricity without wires!”

“You’re insane,” the wraith-mob said. “There is nothing there, just a coincidence.”

“But there is!” The man pleaded.

“The Serb sees nothing and thinks it’s something.” The blob of wraiths moved away, laughing all the while. The man looked crestfallen, but one figure remained.

“Who are you?” The man, the Serb, asked the remaining man.

“You may call me Mal.” Laura blinked. The speaker was sharply defined, so much so that it threatened to cut her eyes.

He was tall, as tall as her, and he towered over the man and the blob of what she could only assume were people. The speaker’s hair was a glorious black, like hers, with skin that seemed like bronze, also like hers. He seemed to be a perfect vision of what man was supposed to be.

But there was a strange, threadbare shadow man in front of him was connected to him by wispy wires. Laura realized that it was a simple mind trick; the man, the ‘Serb,’ was speaking to the psykic image of Mal, not at Mal himself.

“Do you mean to ridicule me as well, Mal?” The Serb asked.

“Quite the contrary,” ‘Mal’ said. “I think you are on the cusp of something great.”

“I was,” the Serb said. “This damn world worships money. Money; what a great lie! Money is not important, knowledge is. And these philistines don’t know what greatness this could lead to!”

“Then we are of the same mind,” Mal said. “Fortunately, I can help you with this. I understand that you need a backer.”

The Serb looked at Mal, or the strange mental-image of Mal.

“You would be willing?”

“I would be,” Mal said. “I made a fortune spotting talent. And talent is what I see in you.”

“Would you rather go to the Wizard of Menlo?” The Serb spat. “I’m sure he would find a way to give you the profit you seek.”

“I didn’t say I wanted a profit,” Mal said. “I have already made enough ‘profit’ to last a thousand lifetimes. What I seek is talent. The Wizard is good, yes, but he is a simple patent thief. What I need is someone of your caliber, to truly push the boundaries of knowledge and science.”

“And what do you expect in return?”

“I told you, I have earned enough money to last several millennia; monetary profit does not interest me. I only care about science and knowledge.”

The scene began to unravel, the memory fading. Laura reached out with her mind to try and stabilize it.

“Forgive me, but the Wizard said he would give me fifty-thousand dollars to create a better current, and he never made good on it.”

“The Wizard is many things, but a gentleman he is not,” Mal said. “I can understand your apprehension. What would persuade you otherwise?”

The Serb thought, then looked at Mal’s shadow-form. Laura was grunting with effort to hold the scene together. It was all unraveling, dragging her away like a riptide.

“I need three-hundred pounds of copper wire, eighteen gauge,” he said. “Is such a request too much for you?”

“You shall have it by the end of the week,” Mal said. “I give you my word.”

“And the rent for this building?”

“It will be taken care of,” Mal promised. “This is the part where I would normally say I expect great things from my helper, but I _know_ of the greatness you are capable of, Tesla. Instead, I want you to build something that will show others of your brilliance.”

She couldn’t hold any longer. The power of the place she was in was too great, and it finally washed away the scene, the Serb, and even Mal. In its place was another scene, of what looked like a ship floating in the void.

The voices hit her like a hammer. It was the full deluge of voices, endless chattering trying to be heard over themselves.

“Peace!” She yelled, pushing against the fog and power. “I want peace! Take me to somewhere peaceful!”

 

* * *

 

Aevar had heard of the Rock, but seeing it was something else.

The Dark Angel’s fortress-monastery was massive, easily the size of the Imperial Palace. And it was built upon the greatest asteroid that he had ever seen. It was even larger than many space hulks, and Aevar had seen and been on plenty of them in his time. It had to be hundreds of kilometers wide, and even that was a conservative guess. Flying by it in a Thunderhawk only showed how big it was.

Despite being able to be classed as an Emperor-class dreadnaught, the entirety of the Rock was beyond regal. Dark, royal and foreboding, stained glass windows were everywhere, depicting heroic actions the chapter has undertaken in the long millennia of its service. Spires were built from dark stone; not obsidian, but more of solid, homogenous concrete-like mixture.

“It’s amazing,” Legato said, gasping alongside Aevar.

“Aye, it is something,” he replied.

“Seems kinda gloomy, yea?” Maeva said, idly rubbing her new bionic arm. “’Sides, why th’ Allfather ask us here?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” Aevar said, nodding towards the front of the ship where the Emperor stood with his Custodes. At her request, they wore their golden armor of yore, and Aevar had to admit the golden armor was truly beautiful.

The Thunderhawk passed through a void shield, and landed in the docking bay.

“Well, aside from having the planet being blown up, this really hasn’t changed,” the Emperor said. Aevar realized that he was already growing used to tuning out her endless, idle chatter; it was becoming background noise, easy to ignore. That seemed to make it all the more disturbing.

“Come on, what’s the hold-up back there?” The Emperor asked, looking back at Aevar. “Don’t want to meet another Chapter?”

“The Dark Angels really don’t like us,” he said.

“Nonsense. Come on, this’ll be fun,” she said. “Croan, drag him along with us if you have to.”

Aevar turned to look at Croan, who apologetically shrugged. Groaning, he spared the Salamander from having to drag him. He fell in line behind Kemuel and the Custodes as they left the Thunderhawk.

“Are you well?” Kemuel asked from his position at the rear of the Emperor’s Honor Guard.

“Well enough, all things considering,” he mumbled.

“So not very.”

“You’ve gotten quite perceptive.”

“As a bodyguard, I have to be.”

The docking bay was huge, built to be a landing zone before the destruction of their home planet. All around them was the empty void of space, and massive void-shield generators that pushed it all back.

In front of the Thunderhawk were the Dark Angels. They were lined up in perfect parade formation, standing at rigid attention. Sergeants stood in front of their squads, with a few Captains standing at the head of their formations. They stood, regal and perfect, wrapped in their rough, tan-colored garb as if they could hide their green armor, just as any haughty Angel would.

As the Emperor walked down the ramp of the Thunderhawk, Chapter Master Azrael stood with his Captains. As one, Azrael, his captains, the sergeants, and the rank and file Dark Angels, took a step forward to kneel.

“Whoa,” the Emperor said, coming to a full halt. “Let me stop you there. No kneeling. Got it?”

The Dark Angels paused, unsure of the command, but they obeyed. Azrael returned to his stance, and the Chapter hesitantly followed him. Aevar had never seen Azreal before, but he could tell from his face that he was taken aback.

“Of course,” Azreal said, returning to composure. He bowed his head slightly, to show that he would comply. “We are…honored to see you off the Golden Throne. It is an…un-orthodox method, to be sure, but to have the Emperor return to us is something we never thought to see in our lifetimes.

“Begging your forgiveness, but it is strange that you have chosen to visit us at the Rock. Would it not be better to meet in battle, to drive the traitors back?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get into the war effort,” the Empress said, “but I got some business here. You’ll get your fight, don’t worry.”

“I am glad,” Azrael said. “It was hard enough to disengage from the Black Crusade. The Imperial Guard are at risk of becoming overwhelmed in our absence.”

“Yea, yea, they’ll be fine,” the Emperor said with a dismissive wave. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

“We will have to ask for the tech-priest, the woman, the Salamander and…the Wolf to remain in the gunship,” Azrael said. A lingering glare of death floated towards Aevar, although Azrael made sure to never make eye contact.

“Why?” The Empress asked.

“We hold a great many secrets here in the Rock. Outsiders are not welcome.”

“Ugh, you and your secrets. Sweet science, Lion was never this secretive,” she groaned. “They’re coming. I could use their help, and they’re the only ones who really know what they’re doing.”

Azrael couldn’t glare at the Emperor, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Aevar and his motley crew. He stared off into space, trying to remain composed.

“If it is by your order, then we must obey,” he said. Aevar had to give the man credit; he said it with a straight face and with no dip in his voice. If it wasn’t for the millennia-old grudge between the Vlka and the Dark Angels, he could have sworn that it sounded like he didn’t care.

“Awesome. Come on, let’s go,” the Emperor said. She began walking and chattering, and Azrael fell in line with the Custodes, answering where he could. The poor man didn’t know of the Emperor’s tendency to ramble.

There was a set of massive doors that led into the Rock. They were opened by a team of Dark Angels, and they were suddenly in the Rock. They were in a massive entrance hall, with ceilings that were dozens of meters high. Stained glass windows filled the room, painting the light from the local sun a kaleidoscope of colors. Aevar had to admit, it was breathtaking.

Either it was lost on the Empress, or she simply didn’t care. She walked through the hall without breaking stride, Custodes flanking her and Azrael trying to remain at her side.

“Where is it that you wish to go?” Azrael asked.

“Think you know where,” the Empress said. “Hey, you got that sword, right? Something-something secret sword?”

“The Sword of Secrets?”

“Yea, that’s the one,” she said. “Just follow me. I know where I’m going.”

As if to prove a point, she began sauntering off towards a large door built into the wall. It was like the door was for aspirants or serfs to travel through the monastery as they undertook maintenance duties. The Custodes, already larger than Astartes, had trouble squeezing through in their full battle plate. They wouldn’t let Azrael passed them, making sure that they were the ones closet to the Emperor.

“Yeesh, tiny halls upon tiny halls,” the Emperor muttered. “You and your damn secrets. Can’t tell a lie, though. This looks awesome as fuck.”

“We are…pleased you find this appropriate?” Azrael said, obviously unsure of himself.

Aevar tapped him on the shoulder. Azrael gave him a cold glare as he spoke.

“The Empress is a bit…off from being on the Throne,” he said. “She likes to talk.”

“I can see that.”

“No, she _just_ talks,” Aevar said. “Doesn’t matter to who, or what’s being said, she talks because she doesn’t like silence. Probably because of the millennia of silence on the Throne.”

Azrael didn’t respond, but he held his peace as the Empress continued to prattle.

“Man, these stone hallways have great acoustics,” the Emperor said. “Echo!”

“Emperor, can you tell us where we are going?” Azreal said. “This area is not to be accessible to outsiders.”

The hallway straightened out into a proper hallway, with what appeared to be heavy wooden doors closed on each side. Aevar’s skin prickled as he heard voices from the other sides of the doors.

“Hel’s teeth, who are in there?” He asked.

“That is an answer that will never be given to an outsider,” Azrael spat.

“Fekke, I get it, you don’t want me here,” he said. “I don’t like being here, either. This place seems cursed.”

“Empress, how do you know where you are going?” Azrael asked.

“Probably the only good thing about being on the Golden Crapper was the near omnipotence that came with it. Fuck. Now _there’s_ something I’d never think I’d say.”

“Claiming you were omnipotent?” Legato asked.

“No, saying it was a _good_ thing,” she replied. “Can you imagine what it was like, knowing damn near everything that happened in the galaxy? If a guardsman died, I knew about it. If a Space Marine scratched their balls, I knew about it. If some tech-priest said anything, you bet your ass I knew about it.

“You know, with retrospect being what it is,” she rambled, pushing open yet another wooden door, “that’s probably the thing that drove me to the deep end and back a few times. Simply knowing _everything_ is too much of a headache. For real, you think having a migraine is bad? Try having a migraine the size of the known galaxy. Oof!

“Fortunately, I learned to ignore a lot of that omnipotent shit early on. It probably saved me a mental breakdown or three.”

The air became cooler and cooler as they went deeper and deeper into the Rock. Azrael grew more and more anxious as they walked. Finally, the Empress came to a stop in front of a massive set of adamantium doors. Aevar suddenly realized that his hair was standing on end.

“There’s power in this place,” he said, making the ward of aversion on his neck.

“No fekkin’ shit, eh?” Maeva stammered, copying his actions.

“Emperor, I implore you, let us continue on alone,” Azrael begged. “We are at a place where only the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels is allowed to tread.”

“Come on, what’s with your secret fetish?” She asked. “We’ll only be here for a little bit. Hey, mind if I borrow your sword?”

“May we be the only ones who continue onward?”

“We cannot leave the Emperor,” Kemuel said. “We are his Custodes. Where the Emperor goes, we go with her.”

Azrael glared at the Custodes, but relented. He drew his sword, and Aevar marveled at its perfection. It was a dark blade that seemed carved from obsidian, and it radiated power.

“Thanks,” she said with a grin, then jammed the sword into a notch on the wall.

The doors ahead of them ground, slowly cracking open with great puffs of dust. It sounded as if the door had not been opened in a great many years. Aevar shielded his face from the wall of dust that was shaken loose from the opening doors. Coughing, he tried to wave the dust from his face. In front of them was another room, what seemed to be a circular cage. The entire cell was made from massive bars.

“You should not be here,” Azrael spat.

Suddenly, through the haze of dust, there was a figure jumping against the thick metal bars. It was a person, with wild, untamed hair that went passed his shoulders, well down to his back. A thick, unwashed bearded grew to the center of his chest. The image of the man hit Aevar first, but the stench hit him soon after. Ever Legato held his nose against the offensive smell.

“The Blessed!” The strange man ranted, a hand clutching his side. Blood seemed to slowly ooze out between his fingers, revealing a lingering wound. “The Blessed is here!”

“We know that the Emperor has returned,” Azrael spat.

“The Emperor?” The man mumbled. “No, a golden light against the darkness. But the Blessed, he is here!”

A memory gripped Aevar, a recognition of his time traveling back to Fenris on Agostina’s ship. The massive Keeper of Secrets, calling him the exact same thing: the Blessed.

“Do not believe a word he says,” Azrael said. “Ignore him. We must not linger here.”

“Who th’ fekke is tha’?” Mavea demanded. “Why th’ fekke ya got him buried down here?”

“He is Luther,” Azrael said crossly. “And you should not be here.”

“Hold, you mean Luther?” Croan said. “The second in command of the Dark Angels during the Heresy? The very one who betrayed the Lion?”

“Where is the Emperor?” Kemuel demanded.

In the confusion of the mad man Luther and the dusty doors, the Empress had disappeared.

“Spread out,” Kemuel ordered. “Search the room.”

“There is a hallway passed the cell,” Azrael said. “It leads to a dead end.”

“Move,” the Custodes yelled, running around the cell that held a man who was last seen free during the Heresy.

“Things are moving,” Luther ranted. He paced along his circular cell, but still kept a hand to his side, cherishing his wound. “Moving, moving, always moving, always plotting. Plotting the rise of the Blessed. The fall of the Blessed. The collapse of the Imperium. Plotting for the sake of plotting.”

“Be quiet, mad man,” Azrael spat. “No one will listen to you.”

“But the Blessed,” Luther said, pushing a free arm out through the bars, reaching towards Aevar. “The only one in the galaxy to have such a Blessing. No, not the only one. The only one? Who was the first? He can’t be the last.”

“Quiet,” Azrael spat, breaking the outstretched hand. Luther shrieked, yanking his hand back. “We need to move passed here.”

“The Blessed has arrived,” Luther raved, ignoring his hand. Aevar caught a few drops of blood on the hand that held his wound. Luther was not a true Astartes, but the wound to his side should have healed, but it wasn’t. “The end is nigh. The Imperium’s final toll has belled.”

“Th’ fekke is wrong with him?” Maeva demanded.

“Quiet, mortal,” Azrael said. He went back to retrieve his sword from the notch in the wall. “You walk where angels fear to tread. You every breath is an insult.”

“ _Charmin’ guy, tha’ one_ ,” she whispered in Juvik.

“Where is the Empress?” Azrael said. “We have to end this folly.”

“The Empress is on his Throne,” Luther giggled. “On the Throne, and up the creek. No paddle is in sight.”

A massive mechanical groan echoed through the hallway. It sounded as if a rusted door was being opened for the first time. Aevar started to run through the hallway, but Azrael grabbed him.

“Know your place, _wolf,_ ” he spat. “I shall go first.”

Aevar bowed in an elegant, patronizing manner. Azrael glared at him, but passed him all the same.

“The Blessed one walks!” Luther raved from his cage. “The Blessed one destroys! The Blessed one ruins!”

“Quiet, Luther,” Azrael spat. Passing the cell, he took one last swipe at the imprisoned madman. His armored hand found Luther’s other dangling hand; bones broke and Luther screamed.

Just as Azrael said, there was a darkened hallway passed Luther’s cell. Even to Aevar’s gene-enhanced eyes, it was dark. The hallway twisted and turned, until they finally came upon an open door. From inside, someone was rummaging about.

“A-hah!” The Empress said. She must have been looking for a light switch, for the hallway was brightened immediately. Aevar shielded his eyes as light pierced the blackness.

“That cannot be,” Azrael said. “There is no door in this hall. It is a dead end.”

“Apparently it’s not,” Aevar said. Two Custodes were standing at the door, spears at the ready; one of them was Kemuel. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“My brothers and I agree,” Kemuel said.

“Come on, wake up,” the Empress said from inside the room. Aevar moved passed, and nearly ran into Croan.

Peering out from behind the Salamander, he saw a massive bed, enclosed in a glowing stasis field. The Empress stood at the head, tapping at a console. But his eyes were drawn to the thing lying on the bed. It was a massive man in equally massive, baroque armor.

“Don’t make me force-quit you,” the Empress snapped at the tiny logic-engine.

With a firm hit from the Empress, the logic-computer yielded to her, and the blue-ish stasis field shut down. The Empress walked up to the sleeping giant.

“No, this is not possible,” Azrael gasped.

“Come on,” the Empress said in a sing-song voice, “wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey.”

The man stirred, then the armor growled as it turned itself on as the man woke up. Azrael fell to his knees, and Aevar felt like joining him. It was like meeting the Emperor all over again, back when he sat upon the Golden Throne.

The massive man looked like he could only be some ancient, mystical being. He wore no helm, revealing beautiful, flowing golden hair. His face was flawless, as if it was cut from stone in perfect proportions. But at the same time, he radiated power and confidence, as if he resided on another level far removed from the Astartes, even the mighty Custodes.

His armor was a deep black with silver-white inlays and trimmings. He had no cape, no robe, but a great sword hung at his hip. The man swung his legs over the bed, pulling himself into a sitting position. Even sitting down he was as tall as Aevar. Groaning, he cracked his neck, trying to wake up. It sounded like bones were being ground to dust, but the man showed no signs of pain.

He looked at the Emperor, and blinked a few times.

“Father?”

“In the flesh,” the Empress smiled.

“Time has been worse on you than it has on me.”

“What, you mean the body? You think this is bad, you should see my _actual_ body back on Terra,” the Emperor said. “Man, I was jacked up something bad.”

“Who are these people? Is that one mine?”

The man nodded towards Azrael, who had his face pressed against the ground.

“Peace, son. There is no need to grovel here,” the man said, standing up. As he stood, it felt like Aevar was shrinking.

“Mighty El’Jonson,” the Supreme Grand Master said, face still pressed against the stone, “we have waited for you so faithfully.”

“Such a time is over,” said Lion El’Jonson, Primarch of the Dark Angels First Legion. “What is your name, son?”

“I am Azrael, sire. Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels. I…I rule in your stead.”

“Worry not, Azrael. But if I am awake, then the Imperium is in dire need of our assistance. And if my father has woken me, then we are _truly_ desperate.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” the Emperor said. “Shit, compare this to the Treason, and this is a walk in the park.”

“Only this time, I shall stand with my father,” Lion said. He drew his sword and handed it, hilt first, to the Empress. The sword was massive, bigger than Croan’s sizable blade. “From this moment onward, I will always be by your side. Never again shall I stray.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to test that with _another_ Battle of Terra,” she said, taking the sword. “Now, there’s a huge chaos incursion knocking at our door.” She returned the sword to Lion. “Let’s go kill them, shall we?”

“We shall,” the Lion said. “Stand, my son. We are needed.”

Kemuel and his brother Custode led the way out from the deepest chamber of the Rock, followed closely by the Empress and Lion.

“Alright, got to come clean about some things,” the Empress said to Lion as they walked. “Things really fucking fell apart since the Great Betrayal. For one, they call it the ‘Heresy’ now.”

“That sounds an awful lot like faith if you were to ask me,” Lion said.

“Don’t even get me started,” the Empress groaned. “Anywho—“

A scream echoed through the chamber. They had come back to the cell that held Luther. The insane traitor was staring at Lion, but his scream quickly turned into a torrent of crying.

“Lion, you’re back,” he sobbed, falling to his knees. His hands, already mended by his gene-enhanced body, gripped the bars to his cage in a death grip. Aevar could see that there _was_ a wound to his side. One that, despite his gene-enhanced body, was simply not healing.

“Oh, damn me, I didn’t know! Please, you have to believe me. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Lion. I should never have fell. I was weak.”

Azrael began to walk towards Luther, but Lion held him back.

“This is my responsibility,” he said, then walked to the cell that held Luther.

“Please, forgive me,” Luther cried, reaching out to his Primarch. “Please. I didn’t know. I was weak. Please.”

“No,” Lion said. “You took arms against your brothers, your friends, your son. I can neither forgive nor absolve you.”

Luther howled, a raw, painful sound that Aevar had not heard in a very long time. It was the sound a Vlka made when he was the last of his pack, when he had lost all of his brothers, but was denied death. It was the sound of a new Lone Wolf being born.

“But I cannot blame you,” Lion said, offering redemption. Redemption that Luther desperately wanted. “The darkness clouded your mind, tricked you into obeying its own twisted ends. It is not fair to hold you to a standard that Horus himself could never meet. You are blameless, but not forgiven.”

Luther collapsed, falling to the ground. Aevar thought he was broken, insane before, but being rejected by his Primarch had truly shattered Luther.

“Are there others like him?” Lion asked.

“Yes sire, there are.”

“Do you truly wish for forgiveness?” Lion asked.

“Yes!” Luther gasped, grabbing for the bars. “Please, Lion, I never wanted any of this!”

“Will you do _anything_ for your atonements?”

“Anything you order,” Luther cried, pledging his very soul. “I will tear my hearts from my chest for you.”

“Azrael, unlock the cage.”

“Unlock the cage? But sire, he is Luther! The traitor who’s actions led to the destruction of Caliban!”

“I am aware of his crimes,” Lion snapped, “and do not need to be reminded of them. His actions are unforgivable, but he deserves a chance for atonement, any atonement that we offer him. Unlock the cage; if he wishes to repent, he will fight for it. Him, and his ilk.”

Stiffly, Azrael walked to the cage. He drew his sword, and pierced the thick, rusted shut lock that secured it. With a grunt of effort, he began wrenching the door open. Little by little, the hinges yielded to his efforts, until the door was finally open.

“If you make another attempt at your Primarch’s life,” he spat, “yours will be forfeit.”

Luther gazed at the entrance to the cage. He crawled over to it, stopping at the threshold, looking passed it.

“How long has he been in there?” Legato asked.

“Since the Heresy,” Azrael said.

Shaking wildly, Luther took a hesitant step from the cage. Sweat dotted his brow, and he began gasping. Aevar could hear his hearts beating wildly in his chest, and the strange wound to his side began to bleed; but he stood strong. For ten millennia, Luther’s world had been a cramped cage; leaving it was visibly challenging for him to leave. But two more cautious steps from his place of confinement, and he stood in front of Lion.

“W-what do you command of me?” He asked.

“There are traitors who want to destroy us,” Lion said. “You will kill them all.”

“Anything you command,” Luther said, bowing.

“Azrael, you said that there were other of our fallen brothers?”

“Yes, sire,” Azrael said. “We have been hunting them since the Heresy.”

“Release those who are repentant,” Lion said. “They will be lead into battle by Luther, under our watchful eye. Any who wish to atone, we will give them their chance. Now, where is my legion?”

“We are assembled at the entrance to the Rock. Let me show you.”

Azrael pushed Luther down the hall. The broken man stumbled, but stayed on his feet.  Kemuel and his Custodes followed, with the Empress talking to Lion. Aevar wanted to talk, but could think of nothing to say.

“Now where was I? Oh, right, the warning,” she said. “Things really took a shit after the Treason. They _completely_ forgot the Imperial Truth.”

“And you have not declared that the greatest cities of each planet be destroyed?” Lion said. “Times have truly changed.”

“One: I’d have to exterminatus pretty much every single planet in the Imperium,” the Empress said. “Two: ugh, no thanks. I learned my lesson after Monarchia.”

“What lesson was that?”

“That I can’t just say ‘don’t to _blank_ because I said so.’ I have to tell people _why_ they shouldn’t do things.”

The Emperor and Lion continued talking as they walked through the dark chambers of the Rock. All around them, doors to cells were being opened, and the fallen Dark Angels inside were being released under careful watch of armed marines.

Upon seeing their returned Primarch, all of the imprisoned Angels gasped and fell to their knees. Many cried, begging for forgiveness.

“For those of you who truly wish for forgiveness, follow me,” he ordered them. “You seek redemption, and redemption is what you shall strive for. Bring fury and ruin on our traitorous brothers, and you shall find peace.”

Some of the Fallen Angels crawled towards Lion. But a few hissed in anger.

“We shall not—“

The rebellious Fallen never finished their sentences. Interrogator-Chaplains shot all who resisted. Bits of skull and brain splattered Aevar and Croan’s armor.

“Fekke’s sake!” Maeva yelped, trying to wipe bits of gore off her.

“Such a waste,” Lion sighed. “We could have used them. Have we truly fallen from such heights?”

“You _really_ don’t want to know that,” the Empress groaned. “And yes, we could have used them. But we can’t cry over spilt milk; come on, let’s get out of here.”

They continued on, traveling to the entrance of the Rock, with a trail of the truly repentant Fallen. Lion pushed the massive door open, and saw the massive void shields that kept the vacuum of space at bay. He looked at the Chapter that bore his name, and saw all of them fall to a knee.

“What is their fascination with kneeling?” He asked.

“Shit if I know,” the Emperor said with a shrug. “Hey! What did I say about kneeling? Come on, get up!”

Slowly, hesitantly, the Dark Angels got to their feet.

“I am told there is a war that needs to be won,” Lion yelled, his massive voice carrying all the way to the void shields. “We may be small, but that shall not stop us. We cannot fail, nor will we. So steel yourselves, my sons, and we shall crush our enemies.”

“We will see them driven before us,” the Emperor added, “and we will hear the lamentations of their women.”

It didn’t matter what the Emperor said, the Dark Angels let lose a cheer that drowned out all else. Lion raised his hand for silence, and it was immediately granted.

“I have heard that we have fallen brothers with us,” he said. “Those that wish to atone for their sins will find it on the battlefield, at the end of a bolt or blade.”

The Dark Angels seemed to shift uneasily, but held their peace.

“Those who do not see reason and atonement, they have been dealt with,” he said. “We cannot let such actions divide us. Their crimes are unforgivable, yes, but they wish to undo their past actions. This is their only chance to redeem themselves. Let them have it, and we will make sure that none stand before us.”

“Repent!” One Dark Angel yelled. “For tomorrow we die!”

“Repent!” The cheer went up. “For the Lion!”

“For the Lion!”

“Feels good to be alive right now, doesn’t it?” The Emperor said, a smile on her face.

“Yes, father, it does.” Lion looked over to the Emperor. “Or will it be ‘mother’ now?”

“Hold the damn vox, is that _humor_ coming from you?” The Empress gasped. “The warp has officially frozen over!”

“Russ must have worn off on me.”

Croan tapped on Aevar’s shoulder, snapping him back to reality.

“What other surprises does the Empress have in store for us?” He asked.

“Shit if I know,” Aevar mumbled. “But if the Emperor could find one Primarch…shit, we might find others.”


	33. Reunion

The news was grim. It was always grim; but now it was grimmer that normal.

Marneus Calgar, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, frowned as he watched the news scroll across the holographic screen. Cadia floated in the air, the center of the massive, holographic map. The Eye of Terror was a purple velvet-like wound, the tear in reality where the Archenemy launched their attacks; with its massive size, it dominated most of the floating, spinning map. Dozens of worlds spun around, with scrolling data posed next to it as new information was sent via astropath. He might still be across the galaxy at Macragge, but the map was kept as up to date as it possibly could.

“What had changed?” Calgar asked, rolling what was left of his neck. With all four of his limbs severed in a long-ago battle, bionic replacements made up most of his body. But there was enough of his neck left to crack.

“Nearly everything,” a junior sergeant replied. Calling a sergeant of the First Company of the Ultramarines ‘junior’ was a misnomer; he was a veteran of countless battles, a hero in his own right. But he was not part of Calgar’s Chapter command, and was therefore a ‘junior sergeant.’

“Cadia is reeling,” the ‘junior’ said, skimming the dozens of reports that were freshly delivered. “The Despoiler has amassed too many forces; he is pushing hard, and might possibly take the planet.”

Many of the Chapter serfs, Astartes sergeants and even members of Calgar’s command group paused at that.

“That was his goal all along, then,” Calgar said, making sure to keep his face neutral. “Cadia is not a fortress to bypass; it is one to conquer. It makes the perfect stepping stone for further attacks. The only planet to have a stable orbit of the Eye, one that is not plagued by warp storms.”

“But every other crusade has focused on either exterminating Cadia, or avoiding it,” the sergeant said.

“And every other crusade has failed,” Calgar said. “The Despoiler aims to cut out the middle man.”

“Sire, we have an Honor Company at Cadia,” the sergeant said. “Should we send more forces to assist?”

“We cannot,” Calgar said. “We have to maintain the stability of the Eastern Fringe. Any troop we send to Cadia, we risk losing control of our dominion, even if we send requests to brother successor Chapters. No, we are tied down on a dozen fronts, and cannot—“

“Sire!”

It was a mortal man, gasping for breath as he broke into the war room. Calgar turned to gaze at the man who had interrupted him.

“You are here to assist, not to interrupt,” he said, glaring at the man.

“It’s the Emperor,” the man said, ignoring the massive Chapter Master. “He, er, she has found the Lion!”

All of the other serfs working the war room stopped, turning towards the man who brought the news. Even the Astartes sergeants stopped their work.

“The Lion?” Calgar said. “The lost Primarch of the Dark Angels?”

“Yes, sire, the very one,” the man gasped. “Word just came through. Needed to be brought to you.”

“You have done much. Thank you,” Calgar said. The man nodded, and turned to leave.

The Lion? Found? After being missing from the Imperium, no, the entire galaxy for millennia…? He was last seen at the Heresy. To find such a lost Primarch…Calgar shook his head. This changes everything.

“There is truly hope in the galaxy,” he smiled. “Send word to Fennias Maxim. We need the Master of the Forge. Send him to the Temple of Correction.”

The Astartes sergeants turned to stare at Calgar.

“Sire? Do you mean…?”

“Yes,” Calgar said. “If there is one person in the entire galaxy that can save Roboute Guilliman, it will be the Emperor himself. He will heal his most faithful son, and we can be a Chapter newly forged, with our Primarch to lead us.

“Find a suitable battle barge to carry our wounded Primarch. He may be in a stasis field, frozen in time, but we cannot risk anything,” he ordered. “And activate the entire Ultramarine Chapter. We will all travel to Cadia, where we shall meet the Emperor.”

“And what of the fields of battle in the Eastern Fringe?”

“Work with our successor Chapters to fill the gaps,” he said. “Tell them we aim to restore our Primarch to health. They will understand; he is their Primarch as well.”

 

* * *

 

Cadia was swirling death. What used to be a heavily-guarded, heavily fortified shield world was slowly being reduced to a chaos-tainted ball of rubble.

The forces of the Despoiler had redoubled their efforts of attack with the return of the Despoiler, and had slaughtered more and more Loyalist troops. Space Marines were butchered by the score. Cadia troopers died by the thousands. What civilians were left on the planet perished, numberless beyond counting. The streets didn’t run red with blood; they were overflowing with gore.

Blood was spilled for the blood god, skulls were taken for the throne, and Khorne was pleased. And deep in the battle zone of Cadia, a newly risen Daemon Prince stood over a gaggle of cultists.

“Finish this set up,” Formerly Onairam yelled, a laugh at his lips. He was knee deep in gore, and with his new monstrous height, it was deep gore.

_Unhand me!_ The soul of Onairam screamed. He thrashed about, but was held in place by the daemon’s massive soul.

You had asked for this: a chance to escape the plotting and planning of man, the daemon laughed. You cannot take this back. You are free of the ties that bind you.

“Finished,” the cultists said, as they sunk the last pole into the blood-soaked earth. Then the cultists were gripped by an unseen force, lifted from the ground.

“My prince!” One screamed. “Please!”

“Your blood is sacred to Khorne,” he laughed. “He worries about it. He worries why it is trapped in that weak, fleshy body of yours.”

The sacrificial cultists screamed as the power of the warp tore them apart, showering the area with blood. It was in this blood shower that space itself was ripped and torn. Even trapped deep in the daemon’s soul, Onairam could feel it; air was displaced, and power radiated from the circle as the thing was brought forth.

Formerly Onairam craned his neck as the single figure stood. Dark wings unfolded themselves from the daemon’s back, and he stretched his neck to the sky. Metal cords, fragments of his old power armor were welded into his neck. Some were transparent, revealing bubbling blood that was pumped into the massive bulk of the daemon. His flesh was split as bones and armor grew from his body, and the axe he carried was as big as Formerly Onairam was tall.

Angron, Daemon-Primarch of the World Eaters Twelve Legion screamed into the sky, loud enough to make Formerly Onairam’s ears ache. No, it wasn’t a scream, but a laugh. He was bellowing with laughter.

“It is good to be back,” he cackled. “To feel the air of battle, to smell the blood, yes, the False Emperor’s dogs won’t stand a chance now.”

“My lord,” the daemon prince said, kneeling. Deep in his soul, Onairam screamed and writhed.

_I will never kneel again!_ He bellowed.

Not to a _human_ lord, the daemon laughed.  Was that not your wish? Have we not given you your wish?

“The last time I was in real space, among the lands of the loyalist bastards, was on Armageddon,” Angron said. “The damned dogs of the False Emperor drove me back, and I want to break them, completely and utterly.”

“Then let’s go kill us some dogs,” Formerly Onairam laughed.

 

* * *

 

_The Avenger_ was like all Raven Guard ships: large, and dark. Logan Grimnar, Great Wolf of the Vlka Fenryka, could barely see where he was going, and he wasn’t about to blame his advanced age on his near stumbling. He was the High King of Fenris, and it would be un-suiting of his rank to have any one of his retinue leading the way.

_“Damn Ravens,”_ he muttered in Juvik. Why couldn’t they meet in the _Allfather’s Honour?_ _“They love their shadows too much.”_

_“Sire,”_ Njal Stormcaller said from his left side, _“we can’t be speaking such things on their ship.”_

_“Njal is right,”_ Ulrich the Slayer said from his right. _“Even if we avoid Gothic, we have to keep things like this to ourselves.”_

_“Aye, I know,”_ Grimnar said, trying to calm his two closest assistants. _“But until I can see more than three paces in front of me, I’ll grumble all I want.”_

Eventually, they arrived at the bridge of the Avenger. Two mortal serfs were waiting for them. They bowed, and opened the door. The bridge was hardly better. The only lights that illuminated the bridge were the ones on the consoles, and a few hanging overhead lights.

“Logan Grimnar. It is nice to see a friendly face.”

The newly-elected Chapter Master stood to welcome Grimnar and his retinue.

“Kayvaan Shrike,” Logan said, switching to Gothic. “My deepest condolences for your Chapter’s loss.”

“My thanks, Grimnar,” Shrike said. “It has been trying indeed. May I suggest that should you find yourself fighting Tau, you advance with extreme care and assume that everything is a trap.”

“Sound advice,” Logan said. “Forgive me for sounding patronizing, but you have just returned from facing the Tau. Do you need more time to regroup? Losing a Chapter Master is no simple matter, and the journey must have been hard.”

“Again, my thanks for your concern, but we shall endure,” Shrike said. “This is the Black Crusade. We will not miss this for the Throne itself.”

“Then let us get to work,” Logan said. “Cadia is in dire need of help, to say nothing of the sector. How shall we bring ruin to the traitors?”

“Now we are talking our language,” Shrike said. “Rushing head long into Cadia would be unwise. We need to strike at the supportive fleet in the sector, cut lines going to and from Cadia.”

“That sounds like a solid plan.”

“I would have thought the Wolves of Fenris would prefer a more…direct approach.”

“Aye, many of us would,” Logan admitted, “but this is a hunt, not a kill. Well, not yet. We need to cut their back lines to shreds, get them desperate, get them angry, get them to make mistakes. Find where they over-commit, and—“

“Strike at their exposed sides,” the two Chapter Masters said, finishing each other’s sentences.

“Not too bad for mindless brutes, eh?” Logan grinned.

“I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“We’ll have to crack open a case of mjod,” Logan laughed. “So if we’re truly hunting the traitor’s backlines, where can we do the most damage?”

“Sire!” A mortal yelled. “A warp portal is opening in front of us!”

Both Logan and Shrike turned to the view portal of the ship, looking out into the abyss of space. As the mortal said, a point in the blackness grew until it was a gaping hole in reality, a pathway to the warp. A small group of ships began emerging from the hole.

“Bring all guns online,” Shrike commanded. “Are those loyalist ships, or traitor?”

“Unknown, sire.”

“If they are not with us, then they are against us,” the new Chapter Master said. “Target the lead ship and open fire. Give the firing solution to the fleet.”

_“Those are friendly ships,”_ the Stormcaller said in Juvik. _“I can feel it. They are loyal.”_

“Shrike, I believe those men are with the Imperium,” Logan said.

“If they are with us, then they should have identified themselves,” Shrike said. “With the Crusade in full-swing, they may be traitors.”

“Aye, they might,” Logan admitted. He looked at the ships that were being fired upon. Their void shields sparked as they absorbed the hits, vaguely illuminating them. With the flashes, he could see that Njal spoke true: they were Fenrisian ships, full of ancient iconography.

“Those ships are ancient,” Ulrich muttered.

“No, it can’t be. Stop!” Njal Stormson yelled, leaping at Shrike. “Stop shooting! They are loyalists!”

Shrike was about to yell to Logan to restrain his man, but the High King was already moving, leaping towards Stormcaller.

“Njal, what the shit are you thinking?” He demanded.

“That is the _Hrafnkel_ , and they are the sons of the Allfather!” Njal ranted. “You can’t shoot them!”

“Sire, a vox from the ships,” a mortal yelled.

“They wish to surrender?” Shrike said. “Very well, we shall see if they want to return to the warp. On screen.”

The view of space was replaced with the view of a bridge. It wasn’t dark, with more than enough lights to illuminate it. The first thing that Logan saw was the beasts that manned the various terminals. They were massive, hulking, hairy things, barely human. They had human hands, but animal claws, and very few had any hairless patches. Thick manes grew from their heads, their faces, even their arms. Tattered and torn power armor hung from their muscular frames. They were the Wulfen, brothers Vlka whom have succumbed to the flaw of the Canis Helix.

The next thing that Logan saw was a team of five women surrounding the bridge. They were all mostly bald, with one tuff of hair that was grown to lengths down to their backs. All their hair was dyed red, and they wore ancient, gold armor that had jam-like collar/face masks that looked like they were bolted on their mouths, so they wouldn’t be able to talk.

Finally, his eyes were pulled to two massive figures that stood at the center of the bridge. They stood taller than a brother Vlka easily by a head, and wore armor that seemed to be thicker than Terminator armor, even the relic Cataphratti armor that the Blasphemer made.

One of the figures was ungainly pale, with pitch black hair, but the one that drew Logan’s attention was the massive figure that stood closest to the pict-camera. That figure wore ancient, grey armor, the kind that was not seen since the Heresy. But his hair was blond. It was long, and it was braided and lacquered. Hanging from him hip was a massive frost sword, lined with the teeth of a great and powerful Kraken, and an axe that seemed to be made from the purest ice. Dangling from his armor were pelts of massive beasts, only the kind that were raised on Fenris.

“Stop!” Logan Grimnar yelled.

“Stop what?” Shrike demanded. “Stop shooting at the traitors?”

“He means, stop shooting at the guys who are on your damn side!” Leman Russ, Primarch of the Vlka Fenryka Sixth Legion, spat. “Void dammit, you always shoot at anyone who pops back into real space?”

“Brother, a moment. I believe those men are mine. Please, hold your anger,” said Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard Nineteenth Legion. “I can see the markings on your armor; you appear to be one of mine. Hold your wrath, we are not your enemy.”

The bridge was silent as both parties, Raven Guard and Space Wolf, struggled to comprehend what they were seeing.

“Hold fire,” Shrike croaked, somehow finding his voice. Logan wondered how he could find the power to talk; his was suddenly lost.

“About damn time,” Leman Russ grumbled. “Fekke, right out of the warp. No questions, just start shooting. I mean, right out of the warp, yea, that’s no problem, but you can’t even see if they’re your allies?”

“The enemy have been busy, brother,” Corax said. “How many traitors have we ambushed? How many of them were preparing to move? Can you fault them for being quick to shoot when the enemy could attack at any moment?”

“Yea, guess I can see that,” Russ said, stroking his beard. He might have been looking at the ship’s main bridge camera, but Logan could almost feel that Russ was looking at him directly. “You’re one of mine, aren’t you? There been any traitor attacks?”

“There’s been more than a few attacks. The entire Black Legion is moving. It’s a new Black Crusade.”

“Guess you’re right, Corax,” Russ said. “Well, don’t worry. We’re here, and we’ll make sure no one gets passed you.”

“Sire, please,” Shrike croaked. “How did you find the Space Wolves in the warp?”

“Our paths crossed a few times,” Corax said. “Many of the twisted warp corridors took me and my guard nowhere, and it was nice to see a friendly face. We have been bringing ruin to our wayward brothers, and have been proving to be apt at working together.”

“Damned right,” Russ grinned. “I bring the thunder, he’s the lightning. Gets ‘em every time. Now what’s this about a damn war going on? I ain’t missing it _this_ time.”

 

* * *

 

“First line, fire! Second line, fire!”

Cadian troopers were raised from birth to obey orders, unquestioningly and unflinchingly. They obeyed the order to the punctuation mark, forming ranks and snapping off the perfect shot in rapid succession.

The plague zombies they were shooting at gave them extra incentive to follow the order.

The lasguns hit the plague zombies that were advancing upon the Cadian’s position. Many las shots burned through the dying bodies, but many more were able to soldier on, drawing closer and closer to the reinforced position. Soon, they were charging.

“The Emperor stands with us!” The attached Commissar cried, drawing her power sword. “For the Emperor!”

The zombies were slow, made from Nurgle’s Rot and necrotic flesh. But the same rot and dead flesh gave them an unholy resilience. Even as the Cadians beat their heavy lasguns against their dead flesh, the zombies struck back, unheeding any wound that was caused by them. The Cadians were flimsier, their flesh still alive and receptive of pain. Slowly but surely, the Cadians were cut down, but not killed. They screamed as they were dragged by the mindless zombies.

“Filth!” The commissar screamed, bringing her power sword to bear against any zombie that stood in her way. “Your power is nothing before the Emperor! Die!”

She was a skilled swordswoman, but against the number of the plague zombies, she stood little chance. Each of the dead bodies leapt at her, dragging her down until she was pinned to the ground.

“I’ll see you in Hell, bastards!” She screamed, trying to pull the pin on her last grenade. But the dead hands of the zombies stopped her. She was pulled from the pile, pinned to the ground by the weight of the cadavers.

Suddenly, she realized that her dead and dying soldiers were strung up in an eight-pointed circle.

“Oh, Emperor, protect me,” she pleaded as the plague zombies stretched her out, pulling her arms and legs out wide. “Save your servant, I beg you.”

There is no Emperor here, a deep voice said.

 The zombies at the edge of the circle began stabbing her dying men. They screamed in pain, and the commissar felt reality twist.

Something began moving, although she was perfectly still. Then the pain began.

Something in her began twisting, contorting. She could feel it in her bones, as if the very marrow was rebelling against her. She screamed as the power pulled her apart, bursting from within, turning her muscles to pulp and her organs to a slurry. She burst from within, but her job was done. The pain of her and her men was enough to give Slaanesh a sigh, and power for She Who Thirsts to push the veil of reality apart.

From the pink mist of the former commissar, a horn burst from her chest, and pulled himself up. The daemon-form slithered from the burst body of the sergeant, flawless and perfect.

First his two obsidian horns pushed themselves from the corpse, attached to his perfect head. He had no legs; only a large, smooth, purple-scaled tail. The tail’s color bled perfectly into the purple of his armor, and with a mighty crack, he stretched his arms, revealing four perfectly proportional arms. Each held a smooth, flawless blade.

“Nothing like a nice sacrifice to cleans the skin,” Fulgrim, Daemon-Primarch of the Emperor’s Children Third Legion, sighed. He stretched his new corporeal form. “But this damn stench…so unruly.”

The screams of the Cadians dragged him back to the present. The plague zombies were glaring at him, as if they were demanding something from him.

“Oh, right,” Fulgrim said. “You need to come as well.”

He slithered out of the sacrificial eight-pointed circle, doing his best to avoid any of the blood or pus that was spilled. Once he was free of the circle, the zombies twisted their knives inside the dying bodies of the troopers, and also begat gutting themselves. Sickly green pus poured from the wounds, into the troopers, and onto the ground. The pus, Nurgle’s very Rot, ran through the ground, defying physics and running slightly uphill to the center of the circle, covering the remains of the commissar.

Space blurred and bent again, and with the dying gasps of the sacrificed troops, reality broke, and another massive figure pulled its way into reality.

Where Fulgrim was smooth and perfect, the new monster was misshapen and disfigured. His once great armor was riddled with rust and pocket marked with strange pox bursts. His flesh was decaying, endlessly dying but unable to truly perish. Where the armor was burst and ruptured, his flesh oozed out, decrepit but strangely iron strong. Decaying wings spread from his back, with the thin membranes covered in pus.

A poisoned breathing apparatus was attached to his face, with his flesh growing over it, permanently sealing it in place. The figure stood, carrying a massive two-handed scythe. The blade was as long as a Space Marine was tall, and its edge was razor sharp, despite the rusted, pus-leaking metal it was made from.

“Well, _brother_ , you have finally left your world,” Fulgrim said, laughing as he spoke the word ‘brother.’

“And you yours,” Mortarion, Daemon-Primarch of the Death Guard Fourteenth Legion rasped through the broken, debauched re-breather.

“Leaving my planet is so very…draining,” Fulgrim said with a sigh. “I miss it already. There’s no power in this place, no allure, no…pleasure. No pleasure like at my planet, at least. Everything is just more…dull.”

Mortarion grunted dismissively. The daemon that possessed his body ordered him to move; there was work to be done. So Mortarion moved, walking from the circle. Fulgrim slithered alongside him, prattling on.

“Such a distasteful planet,” he continued. “I can understand why it must be taken, but why can’t it be livelier? A few charnel boudoirs, augmentation cathedrals, oh, _definitely_ some pleasure pits! That’s what we need, a pleasure pit or four to bring a little spirit from home.”

Mortarion grunted dismissively. The daemon that possessed him was already weary of Fulgrim; Mortarion himself found that he was actually agreeing with the daemon, instead of simply being forced to act.

Fulgrim, on the other hand, either didn’t notice or didn’t care that his ‘brother’ was ignoring him.

“Yes, I can see it now,” he continued. “A pit there, a sacrificial alter there, and then I can bring a few key things from home. But I’ll need a place of my own…do you think any of the others are already claiming residences themselves?”

“Every breath you take pains me,” Mortarion hissed. “Do what you will. I care not of your squabbles.”

“Ah, _brother,_ ever so faithful to the Lord of Rot, are you not? Or does that daemon inside you force you to obey?” Fulgrim smiled. “Now, are you heading off to reunite with your wayward legion? I’ll have to bring mine over to find me residences.”

“Do what you will,” Mortarion said. “I will do what is ordered of me.”

“Ooh, that looks like a lovely building. And its intact, too! That shall do, that shall do nicely. I wonder if the owner had a wine cellar? Has wine improved any since the Crusades and Horus’ rebellion?”

Mortarion grunted dismissively. He didn’t need the daemon controlling him to ignore his ‘brother.’

 

* * *

 

 

Eldar. The fucking Eldar.

Jubal, the Great Khan of the White Scars, leaned forward in the seat of his assault bike, watching the column of xenos advance not twenty meters from their hidden position. The planet they were on, Medusa, was too damn dark and cold. And it never seemed to stay still. He could almost feel the ground shifting under his feet. He had only been on the planet for three standard days, but he was already seeing a mountain raising in the distance, and a valley appearing not a hundred kilometers away.

The ground made riding difficult, but a challenge was a challenge, and no challenge was great enough to keep him or the White Scars from the damned fucking Eldar. It didn’t matter what they were doing, they needed to be stopped. And there was a place on his trophy rack for a few of their skulls; it had been a long time since they had hunted their greatest foes, and he was itching to spill their blood.

The vox speaker on his bike crackled to life; he quickly tuned it to the lowest setting.

_Your assistance is not necessary,_ an Iron Hand said. Jubal rolled his eyes as the Iron Hand prattled on. They didn’t have a Great Khan; how could they lead there forces? Who ever heard of a pack of hunters answering to a council?

_The Iron Council has decreed that no outsiders shall encroach on Medusan soil. We can handle our own affairs._

“Every time you speak to us, you announce our position,” he growled. “We need silence.”

_There are other places that are in more need of your help,_ the anonymous Iron Hand said. _Let us handle our own affairs._

“Not while our greatest enemy threatens to capture more citizens,” he said. “We cannot remain idly by when such viciousness exists.”

_Then let us—_

He jammed the receiver back onto the bike and hit the gas. The Eldar column was moving, setting up some strange portal; the time to attack was now. The column of xenos were quick; they heard the sound of Jubal’s assault bike almost instantly. But they underestimated their speed. Within a matter of seconds, Jubal was upon them.

With a roar, he pulled back on the bike, raising a wheel as he smashed into the Eldar lines. The massive tire planted itself directly onto an Eldar’s head. If the spinning wheel didn’t break the damn xeno’s neck, the weight of the bike falling on him did.

The Eldar were graceful and fast. They lashed out with swords and the butts of their guns, but Jubal and his hunters countered their attacks, and lashed back with savage fury. In one stroke, he beheaded one Eldar and lopped the arm off another. Chainswords snarled, power swords discharged with a series of pops, and the Eldar of the column were dead.

“For the Khan and the Emperor!” Jubal roared. His brothers joined in the cry, holding their bloodied weapons high. But it was not enough. The small column they ambushed was just that; small. There were more xenos out there, more kills to tally. Maybe somewhere in there, he’d find a good challenge, a skull worthy to be mounted.

Looking up, he saw the small, simple portal that went to nowhere. It was a rend in the galaxy, a pathway leading to something. Jubal couldn’t quite place it, but he knew what this was. It was the strange Eldar magic, and they did not close it in time.

Dozens of Eldar troops walked from the strange cut in reality. Soon, the Khan and his forces were outnumbered. That made it all the better.

“Push forward,” he called. “We have to stop them from getting—“

Jubal never finished his thoughts. From the tear in reality, came a howling noise. It shocked even the Eldar. Neither of them were prepared to see a massive team of marines break from the recently erected webway portal. But where the Khan’s hesitation wasn’t fatal, it was to the Eldar.

One moment the Eldar were there; the next, they were not. Their bodies were there, but they were in several places, hacked to ribbons. Leading the charge was a massive man, wearing gold armor, and riding an equally massive bike.

No, no, it wasn’t a bike. It looked like a bike, yes, but it seemed to be a cross between an Eldar jet bike and the many bikes that the Astartes of the White Scars employ. It rode on a jet of air, but was clearly human.

Trailing a long ponytail, the massive man darted in and out of the Eldar, his mounted companions never far behind. Jubal Khan had to guess that he had a sword; otherwise, he was simply moving his hand, and the Eldar were tearing themselves apart.

A massive blur shot though the air, breaking an Eldar cannon in half. The shot over penetrated, tore through the cannon like it was tissue paper, and sunk into the ground. Jubal was able to get a good look at the thing; it was a hammer. A massive, short handled hammer that looked too large for even a Space Marine. Jubal Khan watched as the hammer pulled itself from the earth, and flew through the air, returning to its owner.

“No more?” Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars Fifth Legion, demanded of the fallen Eldar. “Your dark brothers are much more a threat than you.”

Jubal Khan tried to dismount his bike, tried to fall to his knees. He moved too fast, ended up tangling his legs on his bike; he fell to the ground, shaking as he saw a man he only heard legends of.

“You still with us?” Jaghatai called, leaning backwards. Behind him was a man more massive than him. It looked like his skin was black; it seemed to absorb nearly all the meager light on the planet. His armor was a dark green, and seemed to be made of a reptile’s scales.

“I am still here,” Vulkan, Primarch of the Salamanders Eighteenth Legion, said. His voice was shaky, almost as if he was unsure of himself. “I am well.”

“You’ll be fine, don’t you worry,” Jaghatai called. “Oy! Are those my sons I see?”

Jubal pulled himself up from the tangle of his bike. He would never dream of disrespecting it so, but never in his dreams did he think that he would meet his Primarch. His saddle brothers were in similar dire straits. They were hardly more than a tangle of limbs as they tried to kneel before their gene-father.

“Those are bikes? Oh, you’re mine, alright,” Jaghatai said. “Don’t worry, I know you mean well enough. Get yourself off the ground, take care of your vehicles. Vulkan, these are friends.”

“No friends after the Drop-Site Massacre,” Vulkan mumbled, cautiously advancing from the webway portal. “Only family and enemies. And family can betray you. Find ways to hurt and torment you.”

“They are my sons, that makes them my family, doesn’t it? And I haven’t betrayed you, have I? That makes them friends as well as family.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Forgive Vulkan,” Jaghatai said. “He hasn’t been too right since our ‘brother’ Konrad put his Perpetual-ness to the test. Not even a Primarch could make it out of that without some scars to show for it.”

“Jaghatai, we have waited for you,” Jubal said. “Many said you were dead, but we knew you still lived.”

“We’re hard to kill. Vulkan more than any of us,” Jaghatai said. “What year is it?”

“The nine-hundred and ninety-ninth year of the forty-first millennia, lord.”

“Damn, no shit?” Jaghatai whistled. “Forty-first? We’ve been gone a fuck of a long time. Are the Salamanders still around?”

“Of course.”

“You hear that, Vulkan?” Jaghatai grinned. “Your sons are still around!”

“Nocturne makes strong sons,” Vulkan said. He sounded taciturn, but Jubal could see a grin at the edge of his lips.

“Well, it’s no Chogoris, but it’ll do,” Jaghatai laughed. Then his smiled faded for a split second. “Our home world _is_ still alive, is it?”

“We’d rather tear our own hearts out than let Chogoris fall,” Jubal spat.

“You _are_ my son,” the Great Khan said, breaking out in a wide grin. “Now, word doesn’t really travel well in that fucking Eldar webway, but some people have been talking about a damn big war. You know anything about that?”

 

* * *

 

Wars required machines. Siege engines, siege breakers, tanks, troop carriers, aircraft, all had high importance, and high values, in war. None knew that better than the fallen Iron Warriors.

They brought with them the fiercest armament of war machines outside of a traitor Titan legion. Twisted Predator tanks, defiled Land Raiders and warp-enhanced Demolishers pounded loyalist lines, the infused daemons in each machine crying for more death.

But they knew it would not be enough.

The Iron Warriors watched the unfolding cacophony of the once-organized attack pan out kilometers away. The Despoiler might be many things, but at least he kept the attack in good order.

But with the Daemon-Primarchs returning, none of them was focused on a coordinated attack. Each Primarch was going about, waging war their own way. Angron led his forces with absolutely no aim; they simply went from slaughter to slaughter, winding their way across the battlefield. Mortarion and his sons were slow, just so damn slow. For every meter the Black Legion took, the Death Guard took a shuffle. Their defensive lines were strong, but positioned wrong, leaving them vulnerable to the proper counter-attack.

And no one had seen Fulgrim since his arrival. His sons simply followed the Black Legion, but were somehow even less effective. They were taking in the sights above all else, enjoying the sound of battle.

That was about to change. Eight Iron Warriors stood in a circle, with daemon-possessed servitors kneeling as sacrifices.

“Iron within,” one Warrior said, slicing his palm open with a rusty dagger, “iron without.”

“Iron within, iron without,” his brothers said, slicing their own palms.

They squeezed their palms, letting the blood drip onto the daemon servitors, then they began killing the mindless, daemon-possessed things. The servitors howled as they were accepted as a sacrifice, and having finally earned the favor of all the Dark Gods, they all came together to push reality aside yet again.

But the portal fluttered, nearly slamming shut.

“Bring more daemons,” the lead Iron Warrior shouted. “We need more sacrifices!”

From the wildly fluctuating portal, a massive hand shot out, grabbing anything to try and pull itself out. It grabbed a handful of dirt and grime, and tried to cling on as it was pulled back in. Daemonic servitors and cultists were grabbed from the advancing line. Screaming and howling, they were put to the sword, their blood spilling onto the ground, each at eight points around the portal.

The portal strengthened, but only for a few heartbeats. It was all the time needed.

Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, Daemon-Primarch of the Iron Warriors, was able to drag himself out of the portal before it snapped closed.

“Damn the warp,” he spat. “Damn that Tzeentch.”

“Lord, are you hurt?” The Iron Warrior said.

Perturabo ignored him as he pulled himself to his full height. His body, augmented with cybernetics and a daemon, was massive. It had grown to include his armor, which was the largest armor that anyone had seen. He had more in common with a tank than an armored Warrior.

“Lord, the loyalists are being driven—“

“They are not loyalists,” Perturabo said. “We are all loyal to the mission that was given to us. It was the False Emperor that is the cancer.”

“O-of course, lord,” the Warrior said. One did not disappoint the Lord of Iron and live to tell the tale.

“I see that my brothers are already in the fray,” he said. “But I don’t see Lorgar or Magnus.”

“Neither have any of us, lord. No one has seen them.”

Perturabo grunted. There was a voice at the back of his mind that told him exactly what needed to be done. So he listened.

 

* * *

 

The chamber was huge, benefiting a true Imperial capitol ship. It reminded Aevar of being on Parsef’s ship, the _Illusive Truth_ , after they fought off the Orks on Nebekenezer. Just remembering it felt like a dozen lifetimes ago. Only this time, instead of a long Inquisition table for him to stand at the end of, there was a simple circular table with over a dozen holographic projectors painting a picture of the Thirteenth Black Crusade. He actually felt nervous.

It also didn’t help that he was standing in the presence of nearly a dozen Admirals of the Imperial Navy, some half a dozen envoys of the Imperial Guard, and Chapter Masters of nearly every First Founding Space Marines chapter, along with dozens of Second Founding Chapters and beyond. There were so many of them, they were pressed for room. Aevar was bumping shoulders with many, despite their attempts to remain as far away from the Blasphemer as possible.

He also did his best to ignore the Emperor, still in possession of Laura’s body. She stood apart from all but her Custodes, and one. Lion El’Jonson stood next to her, patient and graceful.

“…through Cadia,” the Empress said, using a yard stick to point to the floating sector of space. “Instead, they want to take it, use it as a base to launch further operations. Smart, really. Took him thirteen tries, but the fool _can_ learn.”

Nearly everyone laughed at the joke. It wasn’t just the mortals that were laughing, it was the Chapter Masters as well. The stress in the room was simply enormous; any relief was welcome.

“I’ve never seen so many Space Marines laugh,” Legato muttered, a smile on his lips from the Emperor’s jab.

“We’re just as human as anyone else,” Aevar said. “We all hate stress. We all have to get rid of it.”

“I know that about you, but other marines? I expected more from them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Croan elbowed Aevar as the Emperor carried on.

“That means we have to counter everywhere we can,” she said. “We might be outgunned, but we should have reinforcements on the way. Well, reinforcements yes, but not too big; nothing from Terra or Sol, as you’d probably imagined. We can’t let this massive invasion be a feign to get a group of killers in the Imperium.

“Now, the really big part: breaking up roles. We got the Guard down there, can someone tell me how they’re doing?”

One man was pushed to the front of the admiral group. It was clear that he didn’t want to be anywhere near the Emperor; no doubt word of the Cardinal’s untimely demise had spread far and wide.

“Y-yes, Emperor, we have—“

_“Don’t. Kneel.”_ The Emperor hissed. It wasn’t just said through her stolen voice, but it was also through her mental declaration. The psykic might of the words made his bones shake, and he could feel it in every fiber of his being. Everyone in the room shrunk back against it, but Aevar was surprisingly getting used to it.

The man struggled to get to his feet as he babbled excuses. Aevar’s nose wrinkled; against the Emperor’s psykic assault, the man wet himself.

“T-they’re being pushed back,” he stammered. “Ursarkar Creed can’t leave the planet for a second. The forces of Chaos are beating at every front, and it’s all we can do to keep them from advancing any further.”

“Shit. Sounds like they got some serious momentum going their way,” the Empress said. “Now, I felt the warp going batshit crazy not too long ago. Anything that you’re leaving out?”

“I’m so sorry, my go—“

_ “Just. Emperor.” _

“Yes, Emperor,” the man croaked as he, against the psykic words, wet himself again.

“Or Empress. Not sure which one I should go with, just seems a little strange now, you know?” The Emperor said, his rage suddenly disappearing as he examined either himself, or the new armor that Croan and Aevar had just finished. It was handsomely made, just like the golden armor that he wore when he battled Horus. Only it was far more accommodating of his new feminine frame.

“Y-yes, sire,” the man said. “I-it appears that several traitor Primarchs were seen, being summoned to the planet.”

The mood instantly shifted. Aevar could feel his own skin rolling at the thought of the traitors, mostly Magnus. He may not be able to take the fabled Cyclops down, but maybe he could injure him, win a story. Make up for searching for the answers that got him in this jam in the first place…

“Damn. Well, looks like the warp isn’t _that_ calm,” the Empress mumbled. “Lion? Any ideas?”

“Several,” El’Jonson said. “None of which are terribly appealing.”

“Not looking forward to facing your brothers in combat?”

“Yes,” the Lion said. “I am confident of my skills, but it is something that I do not relish.”

“You and me both,” the Empress said. “Didn’t turn out so well for me last time, ya know?”

The doors to the room were battered open, nearly bowling several Chapter Masters over. Aevar’s hearts stopped beating for a handful of seconds.

“Leman!” The Empress yelled. “Hot damn, is it good to see you! Is that Corax behind you? When the fuck did you get in?”

Leman Russ, his gene-father, had strolled into the room. Corvus Corax walked with him, breast to breast. Everyone in the room backed away from the two massive Primarchs as they pushed their way in, a retinue behind them. Leman grinned at seeing the Emperor, then his eyes narrowed.

“You!” He spat, locking eyes with Lion. His stride picked up, closing the distance between him and El’Jonson. Leman might still be walking, but to even the superhuman Astartes it was a breakneck run. “You fair haired, scarless, honorless, backstabbing tranny!”

Aevar expected to see Azrael leap to the defense of his Primarch, or at least to see Lion draw his sword. But the Lion simply returned Leman’s harsh glare. He didn’t even shift his feet.

“Brother!”

The air cracked as the two Primarchs met, their armor grinding against each other. Aevar blinked, expecting to see the fabled rivals come to blows. But Leman had instead wrapped Lion in a fierce bear hug, one that would surely shatter a petrified oak tree.

“It’s good to see you!” Leman roared as he attempted to squeeze the life out of Lion. “Where the fuck have you been, you fair skinned bastard?”

“I could say the same with you. You ran off damn quick, did you not?”

“Ah, just some oath keeping and hunting,” the Lord of Fenris said, releasing his brother Primarch. “You wouldn’t believe who I found wandering around.”

“Corax? By the dark forest, it has been even longer since I have seen you.”

“It feels that way, does it not?” Corax said, wrapping his arms around his lost brother. “It has been too long since we have seen truly friendly faces.”

“Speaking of faces, what happened to our father here?” Leman said, looking the Emperor over. He leaned over, sniffing loudly. “Kinda smells like our father. Or would it be mother now?”

“You’d never believe it, but the Lion actually got that one first,” the Empress laughed.

“Bullshit!”

“Sorry brother, but unlike last time, I was found before you,” Lion grinned.

“Damn you to Hel, bastard,” Leman laughed.

“I love this whole ‘family bonding’ thing,” the Empress said. “This is how it should have been done last time. But this ain’t no BBQ, this is a war room. We need to plan. Actually, it’s good you got here, we were just divvying up war duties.”

“Better get to it, then,” Leman said. “I’ll spearhead the attack. I’m told I got over two-thousand sons.”

This drew gasps and curses from the room, mostly from more Codex-compliant chapters.

“Over two thousand?” Aevar rolled his eyes. It was a damned Honor Guard from the fucking Ultramarines. “You make a mockery of the Codex Astartes! You hold twice as many brothers as you should!”

“You want to say that again, smurf?” Leman asked, glaring at the Honor Guard. “We do things _our_ way, not yours.”

“Does that excuse you for Legion-building?” The Honor Guard snapped.

“Alright, alright, stop pulling hair,” the Empress said. “We still got a battle to fight. So who wants to kill some heretics?”

Everyone in the room volunteered. Voices echoed off chamber walls; it was deafening.

“Father, _I_ am leading the fight,” Leman said, bellowing over everyone else. “I’ve heard that Angron is on the ground, and I owe him a fight.”

“Sounds good. Permission granted.”

“I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

Everyone suddenly went silent as the Empress gave a hard look to Russ.

“I’m sorry, did you just say—“

“That I wasn’t asking for your permission,” he repeated. “I’ve been your attack dog, your _executioner_ , for centuries; I’ve not much cared for it. I did it because you ordered it. But I’ve had time to think, and I’m done having you plan my destiny. My wyrd is my own, my path is the one that _I_ walk, not the one you tell me to take. There’s no fate but what I make for myself.”

Aevar felt like the world was spinning out from under him. Who would dare challenge the Emperor? If the Imperium thought them latent traitors before, their fate was sealed now. He could practically see Parsef writing the Rite for Exterminatus.

“You know, there was a time where I would seriously debate having you scrubbed from the records for saying that,” the Empress said.

“Just like our two _other_ brothers?” Leman challenged.

“Yup. Juuuust like ‘em.”

“Some of us still know where the bodies are buried.”

“Some of us still know where you were told to put them.”

“And what of now?” Leman said. He didn’t move, but it seemed that he grew to challenge the very Master of Mankind. Aevar blinked; it wasn’t that Leman grew, but that everyone around him begun to shrink away from him.

“Can’t tell a lie, I’m pretty damn pissed off,” the Empress said. “But, only like, forty percent. Maybe forty-five, tops.”

That got Leman to stop.

“You’re only a little upset?” He said, too stunned to react.

“Yea, only a little. Well, nearly halfway pissed off, but what’s rounding down among friends?” She said. “What I’m feeling more than anger is actually pride.”

“Leman spits in your face, and you are _proud_ of him?” Corax said.

“Did I stutter?” The Empress replied. “I’m proud that my sons are finally starting to grow up and choose for themselves. But I’m _prouder_ that you grew up and were an adult about it. Horus grew up, and we all know what he did, right? Not very mature. So what made you stay with me, despite your hatred to my plans?”

“Because I’ve seen things in the warp,” Leman said. “I know what Chaos wants for us, and that’s something I’d never choose. We’re needed; nothing more, nothing less.”

“Good man,” the Emperor said. “Anyone else got anything to add while we’re in the mood right now? Corax? Lion?”

“My sons were killed on Isstvan V,” Corax spat. “I would never join them.”

“Leman is right,” Lion said, “what Chaos has planned for us must never come to fruition.”

“Ballin’. Leman, take your Chapter, and kick the traitors in the balls.”

“I’ve already got a plan,” Leman said. “Corax, you want revenge? Dumb question, you’re with me.”

“Emperor.” It was one of the Honor Guards of the Ultramarines. “W-we have just received word from Macragge.”

“That was quick.”

“It was waiting for us at the Astropaths,” he said. “The full might of Macragge is marching towards Cadia, and they bring Roboute Guilliman with them.”

“Hot damn, really? He still in stasis?”

“Yes, Emperor, he is.”

“Shit. Guess that means I better get ready to try and heal him,” she groaned. “Dammit, the hard jobs always suck.”

“Tell me about it,” Leman grunted.

“There is also news from the White Scars and Iron Hands,” the Honor Guard said. “Jubal Khan and Vulkan have been found. They are heading back towards Cadia at maximum speed.”

“No shit? The band really _is_ getting back together,” the Emperor laughed. “This is awesome! And we’re not pushed back against the gates of Terra. Man, this is _so_ gonna be great!  _And_ the warp is calm, too!”

The warp? Calm at a time like this? That made Aevar’s hair stand on end. That, and things were going their way. Things were looking so good, it made Aevar truly scared. Nothing ever went this right, not since he made the first suite of Cataphractii armor and was nearly killed for it.

Everything was going according to plan, and the longer it did, it usually meant that when it would go wrong, it would go horribly, disastrously wrong. Aevar made the ward of aversion on his neck to hope for luck.

 

* * *

 

Roboute Guilliman sat in his chair, frozen in time. The stasis field hovered inches from his body, still covered in his immaculate armor. Being frozen in time meant that nothing had changed from the second the stasis field was activated; his hair was still sticky with sweat, the blood on his body and armor had yet to coagulate, and the wound was still fresh.

The Emperor whistled as she looked over his injured son.

“Damn, Fulgrim really did a number on him.”

“Emperor, please, we beg of you,” Marneus Calgar said, taking a knee. “You a—“

_ “Do. Not. Kneel.” _

Calgar flinched. Fennias Maxim, the Master of the Forge, flinched. The several groups of Ultramarine Honor Guards flinched, and the scores of battle brothers behind them recoiled as well.

Kemuel himself winced, but was able to keep himself from visibly shaking. Hearing the Emperor psychically scream always had a profound effect on all who heard it. Even the mindless servitors scuttling about the bay were bowled over by it. Kemuel risked taking a sidelong look at Corax; even the mighty Primarch did not make it through unaffected.

“What’s up with the kneeling fetish? Everyone’s got it. Damn, where the fuck did I go wrong?”

“Can you heal him?” Calgar asked, nearly pleading.

“The wound is pretty deep, and if it was made with what I think it was made with, it’ll be a very long shot. Well, no time like the present. Come on, let’s get him moved. Corax, you’re with me.”

A team of servitors moved forward and latched onto the metal cart that held the time-suspended Primarch. The Empress turned on her heels and began walking out of the hanger bay. Calgar and his guard followed them.

“Are you certain that I am needed?” Corax asked. “I must be readying for war with my sons.”

“Well, for starters, you’re the only Primarch here who’s got the same blood type as Roboute,” she said. “Second…actually, there’s no second. That’s pretty much the only reason. Fuck, that’s a cut. Definitely got the carotid. And if it’s not healing, that means magic, er, chaos. Fuck I hate that shit. Alright, what to do, what to do…”

Kemuel and his Custode brothers let the Emperor prattle on. Corax kept his peace; he seemed nervous. Finally, they arrived at a waiting surgical room. Tool bearing servitors were waiting for them, along with a few servitors built for forge work. A team of the most senior genitor tech-priests were fussing over the tools and the surgery table. Legato was leading them; he nodded as he made eye contact with Kemuel.

“Alright people, we got ourselves a real hum-dinger here,” the Emperor said. “Calgar, get out of here, the room’s already too damn small with two Primarchs and my guards. Come on, get. Move your ass to the observation deck, will you? Damn.

“Anyways, this right here is a fucking bitch. The Ultra-boy-in-blue say that Roboute got maybe a few seconds before he kicks the bucket, so we have to move fast. Servitors will cut his armor as fast as possible, get the breastplate off so we can work.”

“Forgive me, Emperor, but how can they cut the armor from him if we have so little time?” Legato asked. “If we’re not careful, we could burn into Roboute’s body.”

“He’s a Primarch, he can take it,” the Emperor said. “What he _can’t_ take is this damn knife wound to the fucking neck. So get the armor off him, I don’t care how sloppy the work is.”

“But you said we have only a few seconds until Roboute dies,” Legato said.

“I did.”

“But that—“

“Means that Roboute would die, yes.”

Even behind the thick shatter-proof glass of the observation room, Kemuel could hear the Ultramarines howl and scream.

“Oh, grow up,” the Emperor yelled. “He’ll be dead, but he won’t be _all_ dead. Not yet, anyways.”

“Then what will he be?”

“Well, it just so happens that our friend here will be _mostly_ dead,” the Emperor said. “There’s a big difference between _mostly_ dead and _all_ dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. With all dead, well, with all dead there’s usually only one thing you can do.”

“What would we do if Roboute was completely dead?” Kemuel asked.

“Go through his clothes and look for loose change.”

The glass of the observation room rattled again as the Ultramarines reacted.

The servitors maneuvered the stasis field into position, and the tool-bearing servitors moved up. The genetors stood by, their multi-tooled cybernetics armse primed and ready. Legato sweated, but held himself ready. Kemuel felt bad for the tiny man; much was riding on his shoulders.

“Corax, you all hooked up?” The Emperor asked.

“As ready as I will ever be,” Corax said. He had both his arms bared, with blood tubes running from his arms, ready to be injected into Roboute.

“Coolio. Remember, don’t fuck up: we got one go at this. Alright, kill the stasis field in five, four, three, two, one, go!”

The field was shut down. Suddenly unfrozen in time, Roboute writhed and gasped. He was pulled from his chair to the table, and the servitors went to work, turning his armor to slag before brutally peeling it off. Kemuel wrinkled his nose as the smell of burnt skin filled the room. Roboute didn’t seem to comprehend the wounds. He shook, gasped, then his head lolled idly.

“And he’s gone,” the Emperor said, pulling a few pieces of armor off herself. “Let’s get to work! I need blood injections here and here. Stick it in, keep it up! Good, get the defibrillator in place. Now get it going, start a rhythm.”

The Emperor dug in with a hand full of surgical tools. She attacked the massive knife wound at Roboute’s neck, cutting deep to clean the wound.

“Come on, you bastard, I know you don’t want to give up now,” she grumbled as she worked. “I need you know, you hear?”

 

* * *

 

Maeva flipped through the scrolls, trying to follow the mad Emperor’s train of thoughts. They were new notes, but seemed just as disheveled as the ones that Aevar managed to steal from Terra. Sentences began, ended, and meandered off. The Emperor was truly mad, and the writing showed it.

“How is your work?” Geist asked.

“Fuckin’ horrible,” she mumbled. “Still can’ make head ‘r tails outta this crap. Th’ damn Throne’s really beyond us, ain’t it?”

“This one…I agree,” Geist said, taking a seat next to her. She still wore her customary synth-skin suit, but left her head bare. “I haven’t found anything that could help us reverse what was done to our Laura. Is something the matter?”

Maeva stared at the assassin. She thought she was used to her pale skin, but seeing her face…

“We’ve been together fer how long?”  She said. “An’ never once ‘fore this, I ain’t seen yer face.”

“That is the fate of the assassin,” Geist said, her barely-there lips breaking into a grin. “I hope that this one’s, my, true face is to your liking.”

“I got half a mind ta take ya right here,” Maeva smiled. “But I want ta find a way ta get our Laura back.”

“You are not the only one,” Geist said. “This might be a good starting point.”

“I knew yer good with machines, but ya sure it’s a start?”

“This one has been trained to recognize the drawings of the machine-spirit. It is necessary for an operative to possibly operate an entire ship by themselves; we’re trained in nearly everything.”

“Keep that up an’ I _will_ take ya here.”

“The Mechanicus would never let us back in this library.”

“Once we find wha’ we’re lookin’ fer, we don’t need ta come back, yea?” Maeva grinned. She looked over the schematic that Geist found.

“What do you think?”

“Don’t think I can’t understand this shit, but I recognize a lotta these parts here,” Maeva said, gesturing at the schematic. “This is startin’ ta look familiar. Might not be _the_ startin’ point, but it’s _our_ startin’ point.”

“And what was this about you taking me?”


	34. Crusade's End

“Peace,” Laura croaked, lying on the ‘ground’ with her hands firmly over her ears. “Peace, peace, I want peace.”

The strange quasi-warp was sluggishly obeying her. But each strange scene wasn’t quiet or peaceful. It was full of voices, the talking, chattering voices.

“Take me away from all this noise.”

The fog shifted yet again, but this time, the voices seemed to go with it. Laura looked up, hesitantly removing her hands from her ears. There were only a few whispering voices, but they were inconsequential.

From the fog came yet another fragment of a scene. There was a circle of men and women, standing in a field. There had to be hundreds of them, possibly thousands, all standing in the field, all looking towards the center.

Laura realized that there was a great power in the air, one that focused on the center of the circle, where she was almost standing. Power spilled from the center of the circle, only vaguely outranked by wards of aversion and binding. Something big and powerful was brought to existence, and was barely held in place.

“What do they want?” A voice asked from the ranks of the fog-people. It was impossible to discern who was talking; it might be one fog-person, it might be the entire assembly.

“They want everything,” another voice said. This voice came from the center of the circle, the great power, but Laura couldn’t see who was talking. It was some vague, nebulous shape, like the wraith-crowd.

“They want our homes? Our families? They will have to fight for them,” one of the many fog-people said.

“You think that is all they want?” The center-voice laughed. “No, they want _you_. They want what makes you _you_. Your soul, your very essence, your power…They want it all.”

Laura focused, pushing at the fog to get a clear image of who was talking. Whomever it was, they were being locked up, guarded by the collective psykic energy of the hundreds of thousands of fog-people. They were all psykers, and they were all holding the center-voice at bay. No, she could feel the raw power in the center of the circle; the center-voice was _letting_ itself be controlled. It was more powerful than the assembly, but it was letting them bind it to this reality.

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you? You passed through death, your powers returning you to life, but you felt them,” the center voice said. “The voices of rage, of death and rot. The chattering voices of change, and the silk-like purs of pleasure. They care for your souls, they worry about them; they worry that they don’t have possession of them. So they hunt you as you cross through the undiscovered country, to try and remedy that problem.”

“If they want us, then maybe we can reason with them,” the fog-people said. “If they have us, will they leave our families alone?”

“Reason?” The center voice roared with laughter. “Does the sheep reason with the wolf? Does the wheat try to talk sense with the scythe? Does a sand castle try to persuade the tide? They care for all the souls in the starry sky. They want them all for themselves, _not_ for you or your family, and they won’t stop until they have all the souls they want.”

The fog-people recoiled, chattering amongst themselves.

“How can we trust you?”

“Because we’re of the same mind,” the center voice said. “We both hate them. And we both want to beat them.”

“You didn’t answer our question.”

“Then you are paying attention,” the center voice said with a smile. “There is always a hook, always a catch when dealing with _them._ But I am not them. I am me, and I they are them. And we both hate each other. After all, I am the Anathema.”

“How do we know you are the true Anathema?”

“Because you have my True Name.”

“You _gave_ us your True Name,” the fog-people spat back.

“What does that tell you?”

Laura gasped. Her Grey Knight tutors had drilled it into her head; knowing a daemon’s True Name gave them control over the daemon. It was the daemon’s closest held secret; to give it away freely meant that the daemon truly wanted to parlay.

“We have your True Name; we can command you to destroy them for us.”

“You think I haven’t tried that already?” The voice laughed. “It is true that I am stronger than any of the dark voices, but I am not stronger than all of them should they work together. And when I do attack the four, they _always_ work together. Attacking them head on does nothing; I need your help, your power, to finally defeat them.”

“What can we do? What should we do to save our families, our tribes, our people?”

“We enter into a pact,” the center-voice, the Anathema, said. “One that would benefit all of us.”

“But we can’t trust you!”

“Then listen, and listen well. The rage will always demand blood, the decay will always call for rot and death, the clever will always be planning a plotting, and desire will always howl for more debase pleasures. _That_ you can trust. And you can trust that the Anathema will hate the four; if it didn’t, why be called the Anathema?

“My pact is this: we create a new man to fight for your people. The most powerful force the stars have ever seen. This new man will have the power to change the very face of fate despite the mewling of the damned four. But to create this new man, I will need power.”

“How much power?” The fog-people asked.

“All of it,” Anathema said. “I will need all of you, because I myself will be giving myself to this new man, to become part of him, to give him the power, the desire, to see our plans to completion.”

Laura could feel the apprehension of the fog-people, but she could also feel their power and devotion.

“Drink your poison, go to the undiscovered country, and give yourselves to me. I myself will feed upon you, but your power will bring me to your world, to a child to make into the new man, and your people will live to see the very stars go out, and beyond.”

“How can we trust you?”

“Because I am the Anathema, and you hate what I hate. Our goals align.” Laura could hear the grin in his voice. “Do you not have a sage that said, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend?’”

“The man said, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my enemy’s enemy,” the fog-people said. “’Nothing more, nothing less.’”

“It is good that you are paying attention. But this pact requires faith. Faith that we both hate our enemy. I have given you my True Name as a show of faith; I will need your souls as an equal show of faith. What do you say?”

The fog-people were quiet, but they all seemed to pull vials from their pockets. Suddenly, they began falling. They were dying, dying by the score. And the power they held was pouring into the warp. Even in this strange mist-like world, Laura could feel the raw power.

“You have my word,” Anathema said. “We shall break the chains that bind all of us.”

The scene began dissolving as the fog-people died, and Laura was pulled into a battle scene. Men were screaming and charging, swinging massive bayonets at the end of rifles, dozens and dozens of violent deaths. She pressed both hands over her ears and waited for it to stop, to go to a more peaceful image/memory.

 

* * *

 

Roboute groaned. Everything hurt, even his neck. Especially his neck.

He tried to breath, and the breath turned into a cough. It felt like his entire body was trying to tear itself apart.

“Easy, Rob,” a strange voice said. But there was a mannerism that sounded familiar. “You took quite a lickin.’”

Groaning, he pulled himself up. A dozen hands were suddenly on him, helping prop himself up. A woman was standing in front of him, wearing his father’s armor.

“How many fingers I got up?” She asked, holding up her hand. She was tall. Taller than any mortal.

“Four,” Roboute said. “One, five, two.”

“Then welcome back to the land of the living,” the woman said, smiling broadly. There was something about her that seemed too familiar.

“Fulgrim.” It was the last whole thing he remembered seeing. His fallen brother, twisted into a daemon, swinging that damn sword at him…the sword he called an Anathema.

“He’s not here, at least for the moment,” the woman said. The way she spoke…it was erratic, but he heard familiar mannerisms. “Right, this is gonna be a big shock, so I’m gonna take it slow. Corax, want to help?”

“Corax?” Roboute said, looking around. Sure enough, his brother was at his side, IV tubes running from his arms. Corax seemed even more pale than usual, more worn. Lines ran across his face, like he had aged a great deal. “What happened to you?”

“You are one to talk,” Corax said. Roboute realized that the tubes were going from Corax, to a simple dialysis machine, then into him.

“I was hurt.”

“You were dead,” Corax said. “But only mostly.”

“Then I guess that is why I feel terrible.”

“No shit!” The woman laughed.

“Let’s start slowly,” Corax said. “You know how father was put upon the Throne by Horus?”

“How could I forget?”

“They found a way to get him off it,” Corax said. “Only we have a mother now.”

“I thought you sounded familiar,” Roboute said.

“Yea, things didn’t quite go as planned,” the Empress said. “But hey, at least I’m off the damn Golden Crapper.”

“If that has happened, then how long was I in stasis?”

“Good to know you got your wits about you. Was afraid you’d be freaking out.”

“I’m also very high right now. That helps.”

“Then we should probably dial back the morphine.”

There were a few clicks, and his eyes began working properly. The room he was in was filled with men wearing strange blue armor. But it was his blue, with his sigil. They had to be his sons.

“If I was in stasis, how long was I gone for?”

“Sire,” one man said. He had two massive power fists for hands; clear cybernetics, not just weapons to put over his regular hands. “You have been in stasis for nearly nine millennia.”

“Fuck.” A cough built up, nearly tearing him apart. Suddenly he was missing that morphine very much.

“Careful there, Rob. We might have up, but you’re not running.”

“I feel weak,” he said. “Fragile.”

“Probably the damn sword wound working on you,” the Emperor said. “I got it sealed up, but it’ll take time to really get you going again. Whatever it is that stabbed you is tearing you up from the inside. The Larraman’s organ is barely doin’ shit. You got carved up real good.”

“Then than explains the pain.”

“You think that’s bad, try actually dying,” his father said from the strange woman’s body. “Now _that_ hurts like a sonuvabitch.”

“If we may, time is short,” Corax said. “Our fallen brothers have returned, along with their fallen sons. They are looking to finish what they started.”

“Then I’m needed again,” Roboute said. He tried to stand, but the world spun, and it all crashed.

“What did I say?” The Emperor yelled as dozens of hands pulled at him to get him back up and on the bed. “You’re being torn up from the inside. Your body’s trying to heal, and it needs time, so you have to stay off your damn feet.”

“You really _do_ care for us,” Roboute chuckled darkly.

“I should’ve done better the _first_ time around,” the Emperor said. “I was a real dick back then, wasn’t I?”

“You must have really changed to admit that,” Roboute said. “And yes, you were. A great general, but a _terrible_ father.”

His father looked at him with that strange woman’s face. He could see his sadness; he realized he never saw his father with any emotion, other than anger.

“Roboute, you don’t get it,” she said. “I can’t have you dying. I’ve done all I could do; you need time to get better.”

“Wish it would hurry up,” Roboute said. A cough caught him off-guard, and threatened to split his neck. He covered his mouth with his hand; when he finally got the damn cough under control, he saw that it was flecked with blood. “Damn, this hurts.”

“Don’t worry, it should get better,” she said. “Besides, things are really moving and shaking now. Yea, we got some slim odds, but a small chance is better than no chance, right?”

Yes, it was better than nothing, wasn’t it? The chance to right all the wrongs, to make it even better…Roboute realized he was laughing. Or trying to laugh as well as he could.

“What’s the matter?” The person who was his father asked.

“It’s just, I actually feel good about this,” he said. “This isn’t like the Treason. There’s hope here. The chance to make something better.”

“Yea, there is,” the Emperor said. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Feels damn good,” Roboute said. “Corax, do you feel the hope for things to be better, or are you being your normal, broody self?”

“Is that a joke?” Corax grinned. “Is the Lord of Macragge _joking?_ ”

“Blame the opioids, brother,” Roboute smiled. “Please, if I die, and you’re thinking back to this, please just think of this as me _heavily_ sedated.”

 

* * *

 

Maeva whistled as she walked along, arms full of scrolls. She was feeling so good, she almost glided. She passed a few servitors as she made her way to her little forge room. A mindless servitor approached her, bearing a scroll. It was an actual full-body servitor, with two arms and legs, nothing treads or replaced by tools. She took it and cracked the seal on it.

“Little Laura could use a snack,” the servitor mumbled through a broken voice; it was their keyword.

“Let’s get somethin’ from my room,” she said, opening the door. The servitor entered, and its skin rippled as Geist shed her cover.

“Well, yer right ‘bout one thin’,” Maeva said. “Th’ damn Mechanicus kicked us outta th’ library real fuckin’ fast once we got goin’ at it.”

“This one…I have never been banned from anything,” Geist said with a grin. “I could get used to it.”

“Yea, bad girls do it well, don’t we?” Maeva smiled. “Totally worth it. Got a good lead, an’ got a little somethin’ outta it, don’t we?” She set the scrolls down on a desk, opening one. “If I’m readin’ it right, this here’s some kinda junction. Pumps up th’ malefactorum comin’ outta th’ Emperor. Not sure how it works, but it looks like a damn force weapon, an’ tha’ I can work with.”

“Is that what we’re going to sabotage?”

“Na, don’t think any of us’ll know what part of it _ta_ sabotage. Back when Aevar was teachin’ me on Fenris, he said I knew just enough ta make a damned mess outta thin’s, so tha’ what I’m gonna do: make a damn mess outta thin’s.”

“Then you will be destroying the Throne?” Geist said, shaking as her conditioning tried to get her to kill Maeva.

“Wha’? Fuck no, I want my girl back, not ‘fer daemons an’ magic an’ shit ta kill us all.”

Geist breathed a sigh of relief, letting the conditioning slacken.

“That…I’m glad,” she said. “Then what do we do to get Laura back?”

“This part kicks up power. So if we take it out, th’ Emperor’s power drops, yea?”

“You’re saying that we should use this…junction, it will force the Emperor from Laura’s body?”

“Shit if I know, I just wanna fekke shit up,” Maeva said. “Just ta be careful, we might have to kill some other parts ta get this ta work.”

“A few parts are nothing,” Geist said. “Our Laura is worth it.”

“Damn right. So we need ta get th’ power scrambled so Laura could come back, without hurtin’ anythin’ else. I’d need one of those special grenades, the psyk-out ones? Th’ one made from some crap tha’ come from th’ Throne?”

“I’m quite familiar with them,” Geist said. “But requisitioning one would be dangerous.”

“Well, it ain’t like th’ damn Thrones gonna be movin’ any.”

“You’re right,” Geist smiled. “I shall put the requisition in at once. Once the grenade is secured, what is our next move?”

“Gotta find out wha’ this part looks like, so we’ll have ta get close ta th’ Throne,” Maeva said. “That ain’t gonna happen ‘til this whole damn crusade is over. Just hope we fekken’ win.”

“We will.” Geist took her hand. “I may be called to the field. Should the worst come to pass—“

“No, no, I lost Laura, I can’t lose ya.”

“Please, for me.” Maeva held her tongue. “Should the worst happen, please, get our Laura back. And I want you to move on. I don’t want you to become one of the men or women who never recovers from a loss. I have seen them on assignment, and I never want you to become like them. Move on, but don’t forget me.”

Maeva smiled.

“Fer you, anythin’.”

 

* * *

 

Now that the morphine dose was at a more manageable level, Roboute was starting to feel much better. The pain was a constant ache, but it was still medicated to the point where he was aware of it, but it didn’t bother him. Now he felt more alert, ready to plan the coming battles.

“How much has changed?” he asked. It felt weird being pushed around in a massive wheelchair, but with the damn wound of his, he could do very little. He could remember Fulgrim sliding the blade home, smiling as he called it the ‘anathema.’ He couldn’t heal fast enough.

“Everything, sire,” the one called Calgar said. Apparently, he was the Lord of Macragge in his absence. Sevitors pushed Roboute around, but the twelve Captains of his Chapter were at his heel the entire way to the command center. “We have grown much, having sired many Successor Chapters.”

“Then there has not been another Legion since the Treason. Good.”

“Yes, nearly all of the Emperor’s Angels of Death follow the rites of the Codex Astartes. There are…those who are resistant to its wisdom,” Calgar said. “The wolves and the Black Templars, for one.”

“Interesting.” He knew Leman would never bow and cow to anything he wrote, but to hear that another Chapter took the same approach? Very interesting indeed. A massive cough threatened to tear the recently sealed neck wound open. A medical servitor and accompanying genetor, Legato, examined the various vials and IV bags that hung from the back of his wheelchair, adjusting the flow of medication to stave off the inevitable. “Damn Fulgrim. Dying is painful.”

“Sire? What do you mean, the Emperor has healed you.”

“True, but getting to that point is what nearly did me in.”

“I see. But we have keep faith, and were rewarded.”

He was pushed into the command center, which was full of holographic projections of warzones, showing enemy troop movement, estimates of their strength, casualties, lists of available troops and their relative health, more information than would almost certainly be needed.

“At last, back to war,” Roboute said. “Where do we stand?”

“Sire, we have embattled Guardsmen and brother Astartes on the surface of Cadia,” Calgar said. “We need to reinforce them, lest they be overrun. We have already selected several landing zones to launch counter-attack operations from.”

Calgar pulled one map up, showing the location for the planned landings. Roboute leaned forward, studying the map.

“Those areas are perfect for landing, but they are heavy with enemy activity. Are those symbols for anti-air batteries?”

“They are, sire, but they appear to be in the process of being assembled or pulled into place; they are not yet operational. Their zones of fire are not yet zones of death; their range grants us ample space to launch our counter-attack with.”

“Yes, but leading a counter-attack would mean nothing if the enemy is able to bog us down as soon as our forces land. It looks as if they are well entrenched.”

“But sire,” Calgar said, “the Codex dictates that this is the correct course of action.”

“What do you mean, ‘the Codex dictates that this is the correct course of action?’”

Calgar and his Captains gave him questioning looks.

“It is as you wrote,” he said. “We must land fast, with all of our forces, lest they be scattered. Once we land, we will launch an assault on the anti-air batteries.”

“I know damn well what I wrote,” Roboute snapped. “And I know the examples that I left.”

“Then you should know this is the best way to launch our counter-attack.”

“By leading our troops into a slaughter? The traitors own this land, and if I’m reading these maps correctly, they are very close to controlling the skies along with the ground. We will not be able to support whatever troops survive the landing.”

“They are Ultramarines from the First, Second, Third and Fourth Companies,” Calgar said proudly. “They will fight harder than most.”

“Excellent. Then while we are at it, perhaps we shall give them shovels so they could bury their brothers.”

“Sire, why are you so against this plan?” Calgar asked. He was genuine curious. “The Codex is quite clear; there is no other solution that you have penned that gives us a better course of action. This is the action we must take.”

It felt like the floor dropped out from under him. Roboute gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly, the metal began to give. The machines that monitored his health began beeping faster, no doubt reading his escalating heartbeats.

“What did you say?” His mouth had suddenly gone very dry.

“There is no other course of action in the Codex that fits the situation,” Calgar said.

“You…have memorized the entire Codex?”

“We all have,” Calgar said proudly.

Suddenly it was very hard for Roboute to swallow.

“There are over a thousand chapters.”

“Yes, sire. We know them all by heart.”

“Sire, are you okay?” The thin genetor, Legato, asked.

How could they take his greatest work so literally? Couldn’t they think for themselves?

“Sire, is it the poison?” Calgar asked, taking a cautious step forward. “Sire?”

His sons were blind. Blind, and foolish. Was this how his father felt about the state of his precious Imperium?

“It is fine,” he lied. He would need to command his sons yet again. He would need to show them the proper way, the right way, to interpret his magnum opus. He couldn’t fight, but he could teach. “The traitors are heavily entrenched, with enough anti-air batteries to make any flight risky. What is the best way to approach this?”

 _Please, let someone, anyone, have but a_ shred _of true intellect,_ he thought. _Please, show me that you can think and learn._

“Sire, it as we have said, the Codex states that we have but one course of action to take.”

“We need to cut out the anti-air fire,” a Captain said. “We need to take control of the skies. From there, we can wrest control of the ground from them.”

Calgar scowled at the offending captain, but Roboute turned to face him.

“Who said that?”

“It is one who should not be here,” Calgar said. “He should have been scourged from our records.”

“What is your name?” Roboute asked, ignoring Calgar.

“Titus, sir,” the captain said, taking a step forward. Like most of his sons, Titus kept his hair cut short. He looked heroic, just like every single Space Marine that Roboute saw since his awakening. He doubted he could pick him out in a crowd. “Captain Titus, of the Second Company.”

“Your commander doesn’t speak highly of you.”

“He was under the investigation of the Inquisition, sire,” Calgar spat. “He should have been found guilty.”

“Of what?”

“Of being corrupted by the Ruinous Powers.”

“I believe the man can speak for himself,” Roboute said. “Well, Titus? Are you?”

“Am…am I what, sire?” Titus asked.

“Are you corrupted by the powers of Chaos?”

“No, sire. Never.”

“Does the Inquisition share this belief?”

“They do, sire. Grudgingly, but they do.”

“I was familiar with the Inquisition when it was created by Malcador, but I don’t know much about their current standings. Are they as thorough as the Sigillite was, or has that changed?”

“No, sire,” Calgar said. “The Inquisition is often the first line of defense against chaos cults and extra-galactic threats.”

“Then if they found no sign of corruption, he is truly clean.”

Calgar and the captains shifted uncomfortably. Even Titus looked out of place.

“Now, what is it you propose, Titus?”

Titus cautiously eyed his comrades, but stepped forward without fear.

“Their anti-air batteries are the true threat, even if they are not fully operational,” he said, pointing to the map. “We should take those batteries from the traitors, turn them to ruins, then land our forces at the space it creates. We will wrest control of the skies from them while simultaneously opening our ground campaign.”

Maybe at least _one_ of his son could think for himself.

“And how would you do that?” Roboute asked.

“Aerial insertion is the only way, sire,” Titus replied. “Assault marines and drop pods will launch an immediate attack on the batteries. It is worth the risk.”

“Launching a piecemeal attack? That flies in the face of the Codex!” Another captain spat.

“Which is why it will work,” Titus shot back. “Many traitors are truly former brothers; men who fell from the ranks of Codex-compliant Chapters, not just those born into Chaos. They will know what our plans are; I suspect this is why they have placed their anti-air batteries in such a manner: to force our hands and make _us_ fight on _their_ terms, where they want us.

“If we launch an assault at the batteries, we will be confusing them. They may take longer to respond, if they are trying to match our actions to the Codex.”

“And what of the dangers?” Roboute asked. “I warned against assaults like this because it could splinter our forces. Divided forces will make for easy prey.”

“The risk is worth it,” Titus said. “We need to both establish a beachhead, as well as silencing those batteries. This plan will achieve both, in one fell swoop.”

“Sire, you could not be seriously considering such a ridiculous course of action,” Calgar pleaded.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m approving it.”

“Sire, you cannot!”

“Titus is correct; we need to achieve both objectives,” he said. “Reclaiming the local skies, as well as establishing a beachhead. Why not achieve both at the same time?”

“But the Codex—“

“Does not account for this _specific_ scenario,” he said, cutting Calgar off. “We must act accordingly. Titus, give the command.”

Titus hesitated, his eyes darting from Calgar to Roboute. But it was only for a split second.

“We need assault marines from the First and Second Companies to spearhead the attack,” he said. “Devastators and Sternguard squads will be boarding drop pods to go with them. Drop zones are here, here, here and here. I also want a squadron of Dreadnaughts to land here, here and here; they will help bolster the defenses of our landings.” He swallowed hard, but remained strong. “We march for Macragge.”

“And we shall know no fear,” the Captains replied; but their zeal was lacking; it was obvious they did not like the plan. But they all marched for the door, readying for war.

“Titus, where are you going?” Roboute asked.

“Sire, I was going to accompany my troops.”

“Unless you have missed it, I am stuck in this damn chair,” Roboute said. “I’m forced to remain here. I would like you to remain with me.”

“Sire?”

Calgar and the captains glared death at Titus. If he saw them, he paid them no mind.

“You are going to lead this with me. I want to see what ten millennia of war has done for Macragge. Show me what you have got.”

 

* * *

 

“You cannot enter—“

Mortarion backhanded the noise marine, sending him flying across the vestibule. The other guard hesitated, but let the daemon Primarch pass, wrinkling his nose at his offensive stench. The daemon bound with his soul didn’t care, so Mortarion didn’t worry himself with it.

The daemon pulled at him, telling him what to say.

“You left the battle,” Mortarian spat.

Across the massive chapel, Fulgrim was hanging a painting. It was of himself, fully armored, before his ascension into daemonhood. The painting showed every wisp of hair, every edge to his armor. Mortarion even thought he could see every individual wrinkle and line in his skin, even the blood vessels in his eyes.

Despite the loving detail that was put into the painting, it was not in a flattering pose. Fulgrim seemed to be recoiling away from his actual, physical body. Shock, fear and panic were in his wide eyes. He seemed nearly ready to cry.

“What is it, _brother?_ ” Fulgrim said, tilting the painting minutely to find the perfect balance.

“You left the battle,” Formerly Mortarian said.

“Because I found this beauty!” Fulgrim said, gesturing to the building. “A former shrine to our ‘lord’ father! What better place to set up my little slice of home? Taking all of the ‘holy’ relics and smashing them, desecrating the priest and nun’s quarters, which make for excellent charnel boudoirs by the way, and hello, the acoustics of this chamber are _amazing!_ ”

Fulgrim’s voice echoed off the high ceiling of the cathedral. It truly was impressive. But the daemon controlling Mortarian didn’t let him feel a sense of awe or wonder.

“Are you done?”

“Are you kidding? I’m just getting started. We’re working on augmenting the surviving ‘holy’ men and women; when we’re done with them, they’ll be quite the delectable treat, both to see and to use. Oh, and a few of my lovely ladies here ransacked a noble house not too far away. They found an entire wine cellar, and get this: it goes back several centuries! Imagine the vintages!”

“Enough!” Formerly Mortarian yelled. “We are in the middle of a war, not some damned house warming party. You are needed at the front, Fulgrim. Set up your damned house of pleasure later.”

“Very well, _brother,_ you speak the truth,” Fuglrim sighed. The way he stressed the word _‘brother’_ irked Mortarian to no end. It even annoyed the daemon inside him. It was like Fulgrim was playing with the word, mocking it. “Besides, plenty of time to celebrate once we win. Ooh, there will be survivors! Think of the fun we could have with them, _brother!_ ”

“I would rather not,” Mortarian said. He realized he was shaking, cringing, every time that Fulgrim said that damned word. He was being mocked, toyed with, pulled at and tested.

Fulgrim grabbed his swords, one for each hand, and slithered towards the door. He smiled demurely as he passed Mortarian. The Daemon Prince of Nurgle turned to follow him, but something caught his eye. He turned back, looking over his shoulder, blinking.

The painting of Fulgrim was no longer recoiling, but standing, hunched over, the very picture of defeat.

Mortarian blinked. Did he imagine the painting moving? For some reason, even the daemon that resided in his soul seemed to shiver.

 

* * *

 

“We need to stand together,” Abaddon cried. “Fight together, as one!”

“We fight because blood needs to be spilt,” Angron spat back, burying his axe into the squealing, crushed body of another faceless guardsmen. “We fight to fight. There is nothing more.”

“If we fight to simply fight, then we have already lost!” Abaddon spat. “We fight as one, we win as one. We cannot simply go about, doing whatever it is that pleases us!”

The massive Daemon-Primarch spun to face Abaddon. The Despoiler held his ground, gazing into the eyes of the chosen of Khorne, holding the hilt of the sword Drach’nyen tighter. Even daemons feared the blade, but would it stand against a Daemon-Primarch?

“We need. To fight. Together,” Abaddon hissed. “The loyalist’s strength is their unity. They fight as one, they win as one. We fight like beasts, we die like beasts, and the Corpse Emperor continues to rule.”

“We _will_ kill my cowardly father,” Angron spat. “We’ll kill him all the same, and we’ll do it my way. Have any of your thirteen pathetic attempts actually worked?”

Abaddon burned with anger. He could hear his men laughing behind his back; they needed to be controlled.

“Each of my attacks have been coordinated,” he said. “Each with a single goal, each with a single task. They were to maneuver our position, to weaken the fucking Imperium, or to make them sacrifice much for very little. How much have you done to kill the Corpse Emperor? How much?”

That got Angron to rear up.

“I have slaughtered thousands—“

“In a small war on a planet that the loyalists took back,” Abaddon spat. “You have done nothing, compared to me. Nothing! And we will achieve nothing if I am not followed!”

A blur caught Abaddon’s eye, just as the world exploded around him. Abaddon was thrown to the ground, but jumped back to his feet. Angron was howling in pain; a massive shell had nearly torn a wing from his back. But his daemon-infused flesh was strong, and it was knitting itself back together with frightening speed. All the shell had done was anger him.

He spun, bounding through the rubble of Cadia, towards the tank column that had appeared dead ahead.

“You damned fool, you will be the undoing of us all!” Abaddon screamed.

“Hold your tongue,” an oily voice said. The voice he ignored, but the massive hand on his shoulder was what caught his attention. It was Formerly Onairam. “That shell was a blessing.”

Abaddon realized there was a massive gash on his breastplate. Angron nearly cut him in half; if the shell hadn’t hit the Primarch, he would have died without knowing it.

“The Blood God still holds you in favor,” Formerly Onairam smiled. “Despite your prattling, I might add.”

“Fuck off,” Abaddon spat.

“Pride comes before the fall, Despoiler,” Formerly Onairam laughed.

“You would best mark those words,” Abaddon said. “I have seen many prideful people fall. Horus was one of them.”

That actually got Onairam to pause, if only for a second. Then the sounds of battle dragged him back to the present, and Abaddon knew he couldn’t help his better instincts.

“More blood,” Onairam grinned, looking at the advancing battle lines. “More skulls.”

“We need to fight together,” Abaddon shouted, but the Daemon Prince was already swooping towards them.

The battle was over. It was over the very second the Primarchs came back. Without him to lead, they were nothing. Without a single chain of command, they were simply roving packs of madmen, easy to lead about, easy to control. With the Daemon-Primarchs, they might not be easy to kill, but battles relied more on maneuvering and controlling objectives than simple slaughter.

“We are leaving,” Abaddon said. “This battle is lost, I care not what it looks like. We let the Primarchs do our fighting, and if we are lucky, both them and the loyalists will destroy each other. Whomever is left standing, we shall cut them down.”

“What if it is the Primarchs who are left standing?” Someone asked.

“Then we shall be their doom as well!” Abaddon yelled. “We have to beat the False Emperor and tear down his twisted Imperium, but we cannot do that if we cannot control ourselves! They will either kneel, or they shall perish.”

 

* * *

 

Julas made his way through the ship, taking a service elevator up to the second highest floor. There, he followed the instructions given to him by Geist, and he soon found himself in the Inquisitors’ shared chamber. He gave the coded knock, and the door slid open. The Grandmaster eyed him while Parsef sat working. There was no sign of Geist.

“Julas, glad to see you return,” the Inquisitor Grandmaster said.

“As you ordered,” he said, bowing his head. “Forgive me, I did not get your name.”

“Nor shall you,” the Grandmaster said. “My apologies, of course, but this is my job.”

“And you are _exceedingly_ good at it,” he said, barely restraining his sarcastic tone.

“What did you learn from the Custodes?” The Grandmaster asked, ignoring the jab.

“It appears as though the Emperor has started doing away with religious icons, even phrases.”

“I’m telling you, this is the Imperial Truth,” Parsef said, flipping through a collection of papers. “Keeping that contained will be titanic work in and of itself. The entire Inquisition will have to be put on alert with this; we’ll have no time for anything else.”

“Let me worry about the rest of the Inquisition,” the Grandmaster said. “Damn. We can’t even say that the Imperial Truth only proves his divine nature; the Emperor would fly into a rage over that. This leaves us in a very bad spot.”

“Standing against the Emperor was always destined to end badly,” Julas said. “The only difference between us and the traitors is that we are moving to save the Imperium and humanity, not to end it.”

“Leave it to an Ultramarine to make it about empire building,” the Grandmaster said. Julas was about to correct him when the Grandmaster held up a finger. “Wait, empire building, that’s it. The Empress is off the Golden Throne, is she not? He had said that being on the Throne meant he was omniscient.”

“If the Emperor is off the throne, that must mean she’s no longer omniscient,” Parsef said.

“Exactly. Then what the Emperor can’t know can’t hurt her. We obey her orders for whenever she is around, spin it as a test of faith. That way, wherever the Emperor goes, she will only see people complying to her will.”

“And when she leaves, the people’s faith will be stronger than ever,” Parsef grinned.

“Julas, how did the Custodes seem to react to the news of the ‘ban on faith?’”

“They accepted it. They are an extension of the Emperor’s will.”

“Damn. That means they have to be tricked as well.”

“As long as we can explain it as a means to test faith, we’ll be good,” Parsef said. “If the extension of the Emperor can find them out, the Emperor will be displeased, and cast your soul to the nether. That will keep people in compliance while in presence of the Custodes.”

Julas shifted feet as the Inquisitors worked. It was nice, it was _right_ , to be part of something, to have rank and orders given to him. But he was not cut out for this work. He was chosen for his ability to wage war, not to plot and certainly not against the Emperor’s wishes. What was his life coming to?

 

* * *

 

“No! Please!!”

“Mercy! I beg you, mercy!”

“Weaklings,” Angron screamed. “Mewling cravens!”

Each stroke brought death. The guardsmen were courageous, but courage could only take them so far. He pushed them beyond what their courage could offer, and utterly broke them. The men and women of the guard would pay for supporting the False Emperor. He desecrated their corpses, cutting them each into eight pieces to appease Khorne.

Something shifted. Deep in the heart of battle, surrounded by the deafening sounds of war, Angron felt something. The daemon bound inside of him twisted. Something was wrong; something was changing. He looked to the sky, and saw drop pods burning through the atmosphere.

 _Loyalist_ drop pods.

“More blood,” he grinned. “More skulls.”

There was a crack of lightning just behind him, the herald of someone foolish enough to deep strike close to him. Angron spun around, bringing his axe to bear. Standing in front of him, teleporting to the very heart of battle, stood a massive figure in grey armor. Pelts hung from his armor, and his lacquered hair and beard were pristine.

“Brother,” Leman Russ smiled. “My, how have you changed.”

Seeing his lapdog of a brother, he howled and launched himself at Leman.

 

* * *

 

“We need to barricade this section of street,” Formerly Onairam said, pointing at the weakly defended plot of land. “The loyalists will be landing soon, and they will be landing there. We cannot rely on the beloved Primarch to keep them all at bay.”

“How do you know that?” A traitor marine spat.

“Because my vessel used to be one of them, brother,” the daemon smiled. Deep inside his soul, Onairam himself tried to thrash and scream. “He served faithfully, in silence, for as long as he could bear. But the damn Carrion Lord gave him nothing, so he left.”

“And the God of War simply took you in with open arms?”

“Not before I took a good tally,” Formerly Onairam said. “Would you care to join that rank? No? Then fall into place, _brother._ ”

The berserker grudgingly slunk off, joining the amassing defenders. Formerly Onairam smiled.

 _I will find a way to be free,_ Onairam promised. _Mark my words, I will be the master of my fate._

No, you won’t, the daemon laughed _._ One would have thought you’d have learned by now. Everything requires rules. To free yourself from the rules of man, you chose to play by the rules of daemons. And you’re stuck with me because of that. Now hush, the dogs of the False Emperor should be here soon.

The Codex Astartes was a magnificent piece of work. Magnificent, hindering, and stagnant. It dictated the lives of nearly all the Astartes Chapters, and it was predictable. They would land only where the Codex would allow them, and Onairam knew enough about the Codex that the daemon was able to organize the defenses to give them the perfect landing zone in the location of his choosing.

They would land, they would fight, and they would die. Even if by some damnable miracle they survived, the zones he set up were far away enough to allow for reinforcements to easily be brought in, even if the forces of Khorne had to fall back to secondary and tertiary locations.

It would be the perfect slaughter ground. What made Formerly Onairam so proud of it was that the landing zones etched out Khorne’s sacred ‘8’ pattern. The Blood God would love it, and honor him accordingly.

“Loyalist drop pods incoming!” Someone yelled.

The daemon looked to the skies. Sure enough, there were numerous streaks that heralded the arrival of the damned Loyalists. They were blue and white; members of Onairam’s former Chapter and brotherhood.

“Come, meet your death,” he grinned, gripping his axe tighter.

When the drop pods hit the dirt, Formerly Onairam stared in perplexed wonder. They had missed the perfect landing zone he set up.

“What?”

He craned his neck, looking out at the field of battle. He spotted a few of the drop pods far, far away from his perfect defense lines. They were splintered, landing as close to the anti-air batteries as possible. Even as they were landing, he spotted a few assault teams coming in to land, their jump packs blazing as they fell from the heavens.

Assault Marines leading a planetary assault? A piecemeal drop pod assault? That flew in the face of the Codex! It broke every single, millennia old tradition that the Ultramarines held! The Ultramarines never innovated, never thought, only reacted to the damned stale scripture of the Codex.

Onairam laughed as the daemon roared, his unholy temper flaring.

 _Yes, push them back!_ Onairam laughed from deep inside the daemon’s bound and twisted soul.

You dare wish the False Emperor to win?

_No, but I can wish for your defeat,_ Onairam howled. _From Hell’s heart I stab at thee, daemon!_

“Move the men,” Formerly Onairam screamed. “Summon the flesh hounds. We must act quickly.”

He took two massive, bounding leaps and took to the air, his wings extending to their full reach. Bolter fire was already chattering away in the distance; they had ruined his perfect landing zones!

Who could have dared to break from the tradition of the Codex? The daemon invaded Onairam’s mind, pulling and breaking his mental defenses to pick apart his mind. It couldn’t be Calgar, he was the blindest of the blind. His entire position was granted to him because of his lack of sight. The Codex was his thoughts and feelings; he had none of his own. If not him, then who?

Titus? He was a Captain, but not even of the First Company. He would not hold enough sway to move forward with such a proposal. But he was the only one who had enough brains to break with the Codex. Who else could it be?

The daemon’s blood was burning when he made it to the new front. Several Loyalist drop pods were disgorging Ultramarines. The markings of their armor were clear, they were Sternguard Veterans. But not for long.

“Blood for the Blood God!” Onairam roared. He folded his wings tight against his body, plummeting like a stone. Hearing his cry, the Veterans looked to the sky. They brought their combi-bolter to bear and opened fire. Plasma bolts and melta-blasts flew passed Onairam. A few bolts hit him, but only one managed to hurt him.

At the last second, he opened his wings, slowing him down to prevent him from becoming a smear on the ground. He still landed with enough force to knock a few Veterans off their feet. He swung his axe, cutting two in half. More plasma bolts splashed over his face, sizzling his flesh. Screaming, he moved on to the offending marines.

He never reached them. The air howled as a team of assault marines, Vanguard Veterans, launched themselves at him.

“For the Emperor!” They cried as they bashed into Onairam.

He brought his axe down, but the lead Vanguard Veteran had a storm shield. Holding it with both hands, he caught the full force of his swing. The Marine was pushed backwards, but the shield held true. His brothers were a split second behind him, gouging Onairam’s flesh with lightning claws and pounding him with power fists.

Screaming with pain, he reversed the swing of his axe, cutting two more veterans down. He moved for a third, but the damn storm shield marine launched himself forward, halting the axe yet again. The bound daemon in the weapon screamed with fury, but the shield stood.

Formerly Onairam launched another fierce attack, doing his best to avoid the lone storm shield bearer. But the damn fool was pushing himself into Onairam’s face; he could barely ignore the troublesome loyalist for so long. He was only able to slaughter one more Vanguard Veteran before he turned his attentions to the man.

The storm shield held true as Onairam battered it, but he pushed the loyalist back. His squad mates moved in for the attack, but Onairam pushed them aside, managing to take an arm from one Veteran. The armless Veteran launched himself forward, pulling the pin on a grenade.

“No, you don’t!” Onairame roared, kicking him across the battlefield with his cloven hoof. He exploded just behind his storm shield brother, and he finally fell.

With the damned storm shield out of his way, Onairam finished off the Vanguard Veterans with four easy strokes. Wincing in pain from the wounds he took, he looked over the battlefield. The Vanguard Veterans were repulsing his forces, while the Sternguard were moving towards the anti-air batteries.

“No,” the daemon growled.

 _Yes!_ Onairam yelled.

His blood pounded through his ears when he saw two Devastator teams in the distance readying their weapons.

Devastators? They _never_ put Devastators in the first wave! The heavy weapons team was beyond vulnerable after arrival via drop pod. But the suddenly unorthodox attack meant that there were scant defenses to oppose them, at least not in a timely manner. Armed with lascannons and multi-meltas, they unleashed their fury into the anti-air batteries.

Formerly Onairam screamed as the batteries were shredded. Massive secondary explosions rattled as the ammunition boxes began cooking off. He pounced on them, but stopped when he heard new sounds. He looked to the heavens and screamed curses.

The damn Ultramarines were waiting for the anti-air batteries to be destroyed. With the batteries in a smoldering ruin, they were landing in force. Landing crafts, Thunderhawks from the looks, were coming in. Carrying both troops and armor, they weaved through the air towards the site of the former anti-air batteries. A few were cut down by Heldrakes, a couple by massive Titans in the distance, but more than enough were going to make landfall.

“Form up,” the daemon screamed to his forces. “We hold them here. Hold them, and let them exhaust themselves. Cut their skulls and add them to the Throne!”

Dammit all, who was leading the Ultramarines? They had enough sense to abandon the Codex, and the authority to carry it out. Who was leading them? Who?

 

* * *

 

Lion El’Jonson watched the battle unfold. High above the atmosphere of Cadia, but not quite into space, he saw the Ultramarines begin landing in force.

“It worked, sire,” Azrael said from his side. “The Ultramarine strike force…I cannot believe it, but it worked.”

“You had your doubts?”

“It flies in the face of the Codex, sire,” Azrael said. “Forgive me, but it has guided us since the Heresy.”

“Yes, the famous _Treason_ ,” Lion said, running his hand over his sword pommel. He made sure to correct Azrael, who took no notice. “That means our time is at hand. Begin the landing. We are to take the western approach.”

The assault ships dipped, truly entering Cadia’s atmosphere. He took his seat, next to Azrael and Luther. Azrael glared at Luther, who was fully armed and armored. But attached to his armor were meltabombs; the detonators were in Azrael’s care. Should Luther, or any other repentant Fallen, strayed from the path, they would meet their quick end.

Lion looked at Luther. His armor was a dirty, stained white, nearly grey. He bore a plasma pistol and one of the re-created Paragon blades that the wolf Aevar made, but other than that, he was exactly as well armed as his Fallen brothers.

The only clue that showed it was Luther was his wild hair, which he refused to cut, and the slight favoring of his side, the very side that Lion was able to sink his sword into all those thousands of years ago. Both his hair and his beard were tied, trailing down the front and back of his armor. He shook unconsciously as the craft descended. He would make a fine mess of things, give Lion and his men room to work with.

“Landing will be hot,” the pilot called. “Brace yourselves.”

 _Deathwing, what is your status?_ Azrael called over the vox.

 _Landed, and pushing the traitors back,_ the sergeant replied. _Heavy resistance, say again,_ heavy _resistance. We have already begun taking casualties._

“Landing in ten seconds!” The pilot cried. “Unleash Hell upon them, brothers!”

“Luther, your time has come,” Lion said, turning to his former friend and father-figure. It was time for him to make life easier for the Dark Angels.

Luther nodded, and began walking, almost limping, towards the front of the ship. Rejuvenation surgeries and gene-enhancements be damned, Lion was amazed that such an old man could move even half as well as he was. Luther gathered his few truly repentant Fallen brothers at the landing ramp.

“We were blind before, but now we can see,” he said. “We have a chance to redeem ourselves.”

The ship landed heavily, and the doors dropped. Luther charged out, leading his Fallen brothers, howling crazily.

“Deathwing, you have done good work,” Lion said, speaking into the vox channel. “Hold your positions; the Repentant will be relieving you. Second and Third companies, you will push forward. Third and Fourth companies, secure our landing zones. Fifth and Sixth, reinforce our rear guard. Pilots, hold your positions. We need to secure our landing zones before we bring war machines into the fray.”

Lion advanced towards the front lines. He saw the dead bodies of his sons, the ones from the First Company, the Deathwing. They were all clad in tan-painted Terminator armor. They were surrounded by traitors, stiff and immobile. The armor they wore didn’t allow them the luxury of flexibility, even in death.

“So much for so little,” he muttered.

“Sire?” Azrael asked.

“It is nothing,” Lion said. He hated this. Brother fighting brother, the Imperium tearing itself apart. Nothing had changed, other than the armor that was being worn and the strange, queer faith that his sons somehow had. His father, now mother, was truly lenient to simply not exetrimatus every single planet who worshipped her. But Compliance would be coming, as soon as they dealt with the traitors.

Lion sighed. He was not relishing the thought of fighting his brothers again. The dark gods were cruel, making brother fight brother.

He scanned the horizon, looking for the massive Titans that strode across the surface. Loyal Titans were finding their dark brethren, and were exchanging fire that make the very ground shake. There was nothing that could be done about them; he had to focus on his sons and their advancement. They had to secure the flank if they wished to make any meaningful gains.

Lion looked at the frontlines of the battle. Luther and his Fallen ilk were fighting and howling like things possessed. Even the fury of the Deathwing was nothing compared to them.

Good, that was good. They still had use about them.

“They are truly repentant,” Azrael said, doing his best to keep awe from his voice. It was hard not to. The repentant Fallen fought with zeal that went beyond insanity. The purple-clad lines of the Emperor’s Children were falling so fast it was astounding. “They’re already pushing passed the Deathwing. Sire, what now?”

“We move forward,” Lion said. “The Ultramarines have given us the opening we need, and the Repentant are giving us our momentum. We follow their advances, then branch off, rid ourselves of entrenched gun lines and secure ammo dumps; we deny all that we can it to the traitors. We take this land, and soon we shall take the planet from them.”

“As you order,” Azrael said. Lion could hear the smile in his voice. “Second and Third company, move with your Primarch!”

Soon Lion was ten meters behind Luther’s mad assault. His former friend’s blade rose and fell, his gun spat plasma as he laid into the traitors. Both Luther and the Repentant were screaming. No words, no chants, no hymns, just a raw, primal scream.

“Branch off here,” Lion said, pointing to the side streets that flanked the main boulevard. “Secure any munitions. Destroy what you can’t keep.”

“Sire.” It was a Deathwing Legionnaire. “We believe we have spotted an enemy stronghold, possibly a command center. The enemy overran a holy temple. No doubt they are desecrating it as we speak.”

Temples? What’s more, _holy_ temples? How far did the Imperium fall after Horus’ treason? Lion shook his head.

“If it is a command center, it will be heavily fortified,” Lion said. “I will lead the assault to capture it. Azrael, continue the push. We must secure more land before we can bring our armor around. Hold the First Company in reserve; we’ll need them to break a stall.”

“As you command, sire,” Azrael said, bowing. “Second Company, to me! We push the traitors back!”

“Third Company, form ranks,” Lion commanded. “We are taking the stronghold. Break into squads, move through the side streets. Do not get bunched up; we will be sweet targets for artillery attacks.”

His sons cheered and broke into squads. Lion looked to the skyline; above the ruined buildings and homes of Cadia, he saw a tall dome that seemed, through a twist of fortune, untouched. His helm marked it as the assumed command center of the traitors, a church, of all things. His father was truly showing restraint by not declaring exterminatus on this planet.

There were several dozen streets that lead to the church. This was one of the few times that his superhuman size did him ill; he had to pick the largest street to traverse down. One squad of his sons moved with him, while another waited before following; he was glad that they were giving him room in case artillery rained down.

Ahead of the street, a group of traitors arrived.

Lion drew his sword and charged forward. He was expecting bolts to hit his armor, but the traitors were using strange sound-guns. Vibrations and horrible screeching noises rattled his bones, but his armor held strong. He was on them in a second.

It felt good to stretch. While he was in stasis, no time had passed for him, but Lion couldn’t help but shake the feeling that he was too cooped up, like his body knew it had been spending millennia asleep. He made sure to check his form as he cut down the traitors, being sure to twist and get every muscle group he could.

His back popped and his neck rolled. He felt much better, getting it all out of his system.

“Move forward,” he called, stepping over the dead bodies. His sons were all too eager to race to his side.

“We take the chapel back, brothers,” one said. “Guard yourselves, these traitors know nothing of decency.”

Lion had to bite his tongue. Chapel? He still couldn’t believe his father didn’t simply destroy this planet, or at the very least the city. He truly had learned his lesson from Monarchia: destroying a city alienates a Legion.

They approached the chapel, but didn’t see any other traitors. Lion’s skin turned to gooseflesh; something was wrong, terribly wrong. Finally, they arrived at the entrance to the chapel. From the other side streets, more of Lion’s sons were arriving. They were four squads strong, with more arriving by the minute.

“With me,” he said, walking to the entrance. “If this is a command center by the enemy, they might be razing it, destroying valuable intelligence.”

“Intelligence, sire? We can never learn from Chaos. It can only twist and corrupt—“

“I meant troop movement,” Lion gasped. “The size of their deployment, location of units, plans of attack.”

“We…see.”

Of course they did. Lion ignored his son and walked to the entrance, where the doors were barred. When did his sons become so blind? Roboute must be in physical pain to find how much they lost.

“We crack this door open. I want squads stationed here, here and here,” Lion ordered. “We overlap our fields of fire. If there are traitors are waiting for us, we catch them unaware.”

There were broken monuments, ruined troop carriers that provided cover at the spots he pointed out. His sons took cover. At least they moved fast and without complain. A melta bomb was placed on the door; it vanished in a brilliant burst of light. Even Lion had to shield his eyes from them. The door fell, and Lion knew he was right to feel out of place.

Bodies were stacked against the door. Each was mutilated in their own unique way, but all were equally carved up. They fell out, spilling down the steps of the doorway.

“Is there no mercy in the galaxy?” He muttered.

“By the Throne…”

Some of his sons balked at the bloody work. He didn’t blame them. He couldn’t feel the caress of fear, but he could certainly feel that this place was wrong. He should order the place bombed, they had aircraft in the skies now thanks to Roboute’s ingenious strategy, but they could be destroying valuable information on enemy troops.

“I need four squads securing this area,” he said. “The traitors might try to re-take it. The rest, come with me. We secure this building.”

“One is still alive,” a son called. Lion ran over to him. It was a man, flayed down to the bone. He was alive, but soon wouldn’t be.

“Please,” he croaked. “Please.”

“Water,” Lion called.

“No, cut,” the man gurgled on blood. “There’s still space that can be cut…”

Lion ended the man before he could continue. His head fell cleanly from his spine. Just as the man said, there was still un-flayed flesh on his chest.

“It was a grace, sire,” a son said.

“Do not speak,” Lion said. “We need this place cleared out.”

The atrium was ahead, but the skylight was covered. Fires burned, showing piles of desecrated corpses. Each with a smile on their face.

“Spread out,” Lion said. “No squad goes alone. Be prepared to meet resistance.”

His sons dutifully fanned out, each squad keeping at least one other squad in sight. Lion advanced, moving to the sides of the atrium; there was no straight line to the heart of the chapel. From the looks of it, there were ornate hallways that wound their way through the massive building.

His attention was quickly drawn from the busts, monuments and the paintings. More desecrated bodies were stacked along the hall. Many were nailed along the wall, grinning and smiling in death. The mark of some foul daemon was made on each and every single victim.

“Contact!” His sons cried, firing. “Foul daemons assault us!”

Lion spun, seeing a whole group of fair-skinned, clawed-handed daemons rush him. They were fast, but he was faster still. He lashed out, decapitating two, then blocked their attacks.

They were too slow to keep pace with him, too unskilled in combat to block his attacks. Lion was winning his battle, but he couldn’t abandon his sons. He turned to launch himself back into the fray, when a smooth, familiar, voice tickled his ears.

“Leave us, sire,” one of his sons cried. “We shall handle these beasts. Take the chapel back from these monsters.”

A shadow was cast against a wall. It was massive, easily his size, possibly bigger. He had that bad, sinking feeling again; he couldn’t let that thing move about freely. Something told him he wouldn’t like what he would see, but there was no other choice.

“Stand strong,” he called to his embattled songs. They roared against the sighs and laughs of the perverted, latex-wrapped daemons. Lion sprinted down the hall, chasing the shadow.

The desecrated hallway twisted and turned, but quickly broke into the main chapel. The room was massive, easily fifty meters in diameter, with an equally high ceiling. It was immaculately painted, but each painting was either desecrated or destroyed. Each statue was knocked over, broken, little more than rubble. But it wasn’t the chapel that Lion was focused on.

Standing in the middle, surrounded by daemons torturing the surviving men and women, stood Fulgrim. His entire skin was a radiant, perfect purple, his four arms holding four swords. Horns sprouted from his head, and his body ended at his chest. The rest was a long, thick, coiled serpent tail.

“This is why I should never leave my sanctuary; someone might try to ruin it,” Fulgrim sighed. He turned to Lion. “Hello, _brother_. It sure has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Hearing the sarcastic tone Fulgrim took with ‘brother,’ Lion felt the lick of hatred. He let it pass over him, burning itself out, as he lowered himself into a combat stance.

“Right to the action, eh?” Fulgrim laughed. “I like it. I’m glad I got back here in time to meet you. Now, let’s see who aged better, _brother_.”

 

* * *

 

The daemon was displeased, so Mortarian growled. It came out wet and deep from behind his poisoned re-breather. The loyalist reinforcements hadn’t been on the planet for an hour and the front lines were already collapsing. Angron’s lines were twisting and folding, but they received no reports of significant losses. The damn mindless berserkers. They were probably too engrossed in killing eight, and _only_ eight, loyalists before taking a moment to pray to the Blood God.

They were being led about by their noses. Something about that resonated within Mortarian about his current situation, but the daemon that controlled him stopped his train of thought.

Fulgrim’s lines were also in flux, absorbing the blow of the Dark Angels. The Emperor’s Children’s defenses relied on the World Eaters, just as Perturabo’s forces did. Their entire forces were structured around the inevitable loyalist counter-attack; structured to counter well-known and never-deviated-from standards.

Somehow, someone with enough brains found a way to deviate from millennia old protocol. Their entire defensive plans was for shit.

“Get more men up on that ridge,” Mortarian snapped. “We can’t count on our useless brothers. We can only rely on our own strength, and the blessings of Grandfather Nurgle.”

“Yes, lord,” they replied, shuffling munitions to higher killing grounds. Things were falling apart, yes, but from death and decay came rebirth and strength. They would prove themselves the strongest Legion, and they will crush all who stood before them.

He scanned the horizon. The Titan Legions were still battling it out, both Loyalist against Chaos. The massive war machines were miles away, but they still made the ground shake from their weapons fire. When the day began, there were twenty Warlord-Battle Titans on the field, eleven for the forces of Chaos, nine for the Loyalists. Now, however, twelve remained; an even six for each force.

While the Titans fought for supremacy, the battle for the air was turning to the Loyalists. With new forces arriving, more and more fliers were entering the skies, and their air force was being ground to bits. Only a scant few anti-air batteries were keeping the loyalists at bay, and the way their ground defense lines were warping, that too seemed to change. For any other Legion but his, losing them was only a matter of time.

“Dig in,” the daemon made him order. “We hold our batteries, we deny the skies to the loyalists, and this world will burn for Grandfather Nurgle.”

His sons laughed as they readied the defenses. Formerly Mortarian paused; he heard the sound of engines. But there were no fighters in the skies.

“Our blind brothers are upon us,” he said, bringing his massive scythe to bear. “They seek a glorious death. Oblige them.”

From the wreckage of Cadia, the White Scars came. Their massive assault bikes closed the distance from the defensive walls in no time at all. But what grabbed Mortarian’s eyes was the massive figure leading the charge.

Sitting upon an ancient Terran jet bike, Jaghatai Khan locked eyes with him. He held his sword at the ready, a look of grim determination on his face.

“This time, you won’t escape me,” Formerly Mortarian said, planting his feet.


	35. Crusade's End

Roboute coughed. He did his best to hide it, but the noise still echoed throughout the chamber.

Titus didn’t seem to notice. With forces from nearly every corner of the planet reporting in every second, he was drowning in data. It even made Roboute’s head swim; this was how the Siege of Terra must have been.

“Watch the south-eastern flank of grid twenty-four-by-nineteen,” Roboute said. “If we push our troops any harder, they risk collapsing.”

“U-understood, sire,” Titus said. “What do you suggest?”

“Tell me your thoughts, and I will tell you what my suggestions are.”

Titus hesitated, but only for a second.

“The troops stationed there are a mixture of Ultramarines and Imperial Storm Troopers,” he said. “They are being harried hard by enemy armor, with minimal troop movement. As you say, we can’t push them anymore…”

 _Think, damn you,_ Roboute thought. _Think! That is all I want from you!_

“…But we can let them fall back,” Titus said, realization dawning on him.

Roboute smiled, relaxing in his chair. There was hope for his sons.

“A tactical retreat; we have them fall back to defensible positions,” Titus said, drawing up battle plans. “Move them into separate fortifications and ruins. That provides them shelter from the armor. It will be limited shelter at least, but the building here, here and here would give them a commanding field of view, letting them deny the armor units the ground we gave up.”

A cough brewed in his lungs, and Roboute didn’t catch it fast enough. He was fast enough to cover his mouth with his hand, though. He heaved and coughed, drawing the attention of the genetors. Titus, however, was too engrossed to notice.

“Sire, what is ailing you?” The one called Legato asked.

“My chest,” Roboute groaned. “My damn chest.”

He spat out a bloody wad of phlegm onto the floor. The genetors fussed over the readings their scanners fed them. Roboute checked the pad of gauze on his chest, the very one that covered the damn knife wound that Fulgrim gave him. It came back sticky with blood, and what looked like pus and some other vile, black fluid.

“I…I am sorry, sire,” Legato said. “It appears that something has gone wrong. We will need to operate right away.”

“Fine,” Roboute sighed. Hopefully Titus would not see him so weak. “But make it quick.”

“We will need to sedate you.”

“No, just local anesthesia.”

The genetors wasted no time. They injected him with painkillers and went to slicing into his chest, re-opening the wound his father had closed not so long ago. Roboute kept an eye on Titus.

His son was growing more and more confident. He was beginning to move larger and larger groups of men about, re-positioning them, setting up staggered defensive lines and ordering surgical retaliatory strikes. The forces of chaos were battering them, but they weren’t going down without a fight.

A fight. That’s what did him in last time. That’s what should have killed him all those years ago. Roboute was suddenly tired. This was all a delaying action. He suddenly saw himself dying in the very chair he sat in.

He didn’t care what his father, or mother now, had said about his wound. It could have been cured, and this could simply be a small bump in the road, but Roboute was positive that he would be dead, sooner rather than later.

His heart spiked. It was the natural human reaction when faced with the inevitable beyond. In the back of his mind, he was panicking. He couldn’t be dying. Not here, not now, not ever. He was the Lord of Macragge, the Son of the Emperor. Death was not supposed to be in the cards for him; it wasn’t even supposed to be an option.  His sons needed him. He couldn’t die here.

But at the same time, he was just tired. The anger in the back of his mind never permeated to his consciousness before; he could feel the fear, raw and angry, but it didn’t seem to bother him much. He was dying, yes, but he was a dead man for the longest time. With the exception of his father, he was the longest-living dead man in the history of the galaxy. Seeing Fulgrim slide the blade home in his chest, he knew that he was as good as dead. All of this was just a delaying tactic.

Roboute felt that this was his fate, without knowing the official prognosis of the genetors. But something told him he wouldn’t need their official decree on his health.

“Our forces are being rushed into the peninsula,” Titus said to the vox channel. “They are in need of reinforcements. Eighth Company, divide into two divisions; the first will assault the enemy here, stall their advances. The second division will wait in reserve to attack them at their weakest point.”

 _Sire, if we push any further west, we will run into the Wolves,_ a sergeant said. _And they stressed that they want to be left alone to work._

“Then we will hold them here.”

Maybe his sons weren’t so doomed after all. Roboute was amazed what a little bit of hope could do.

Roboute’s eyes were starting to lose focus.

“I said local anesthesia only,” he hissed.

“S-sire, but we have to—“ Legato said.

“Just stop,” Roboute said. “I’ve had enough.”

“But the wound—“

“Damn the wound. I’ve had enough.”

The genetors paused, but Legato waved them off. Slowly, they began backing away. A few went to sealing the wound in his chest. Fortunately, Titus hadn’t seen the miniature drama unfold. He was too engrossed in troop management to notice his Primarch was once again wounded.

“What is causing this?” Roboute asked.

“We…we don’t know,” Legato shrugged. “The Emperor saved you, cleaned the wound out and banished the corruption. But your Larraman’s Organ is failing; no, not failing, it’s degenerating before our eyes. It’s coming apart, and we can’t seem to find a way to stop it.”

It was the Anathema, the blade that Fulgrim used on him. Even nine millennia later, it was still killing him.

“Sire, I’m so sorry, but if the Larraman’s Organ fails, it seems that the rest of your system will begin to fail as well.”

So this was it. All of his hard work, all of his building, would end with this. What would happen of his sons? Of his works? The genetors had to find something, they had to find anything that would keep him alive and in the fight.

Roboute felt the peel of fear in his heart, and waited for the long shot of adrenaline to rouse him. But none came.

The end. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. After all, he spent nearly ten full millennia dying in a time-locked stasis field. Maybe he would finally be rid of this damn pain, of seeing his damned fallen brother killing him.

And there was Titus. If Titus learned that the Codex Astartes was not to be taken literally, perhaps there were more of his sons that held similar believes.

There was that hope again, that warm feeling that things weren’t so bad as he thought they were, or that they could get better. He watched his son reading the ever-active map of war, and was so relieved when he chose a course of action that wasn’t in the massive tome of his magnum opus.

‘Magnum opus.’ He thought he made the greatest learning tool in the entire history of war. He only created the greatest crutch. Why innovate when he had done all the work for them?  If he lived long enough, he would tear the original to shreds.

No, this was the end, but that would be fine. The destruction of the traitor legions, seeing his sons actually learn for once, to leave on that note would be just fine with him.

“Sire?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, the Emperor—“

“Does not know about this, and cannot be harmed by it.”

“O-of course.”

If this would be his swan song, Roboute could live with that. He watched Titus when he felt something brush him.

He jerked around, but saw no one. He turned back around, but saw only an empty war room. Titus was gone, as were the genetors, mortal servants and aides. The holographic maps still flashed with life, but the room was utterly silent.

“What madness is this?” Roboute demanded. Suddenly, he found himself on his feet. He stood without knowing he stood, and without pain as well. He looked at his chest, pulling down his shirt. There was a light scar on his chest, were Fulgrim pushed the damned blade in. It was so slight, his eyes almost passed over the scar.

“Show yourself,” Guilliman yelled. His voice echoed around the chamber; there was no one there.

Suddenly, as one, every single holographic projector changed. It no longer showed the escalation of war, but of a single, live feed of some war.

But this was no normal war. This wasn’t even the war his sons were fighting against the traitors. No, this was a war against xenos. Guilliman saw dead orks, twisted Tyranids, and fallen Eldar before him, their blood seeping into the ground. The camera panned, showing Imperial forces driving the fell xenos back. Ranks were firing on the move, their form impeccable, their timing perfect.

He saw scores of aliens being gunned down. The Imperial forces, he saw, were from his Chapter and successor Chapters. There were so many of them, he thought that every single Astartes in the Imperium was there, the gathered forces of every single chapter.

“To victory!” One of his sons yelled, raising his bolter high. “Our Lord Guilliman has lead us to victory!”

“Victory!” The cry went up. Roboute jumped. He was no longer looking at a hologram; he was on the battlefield himself.

“To Lord Guilliman! To Victory!” There were hundreds of Astartes. Thousands. Possibly millions; everywhere he looked, Roboute saw his sons. They were more numerous than the stars in the sky.

“To Guilliman! To Victory!”

“To Guilliman! To Victory!”

Yes, yes, they had won, hadn’t they? A great victory for the Imperium. No, he was the Lord of Macragge, the Master of Ultramar. This victory was his alone.

As he turned, seeing his endless sons, he saw icons being raised in his honor. Massive statues of his likeness, hundreds of feet tall, lined a road that seemed to spring from the ground. Buildings were built, each a wondrous work of art. And his sons, once peerless warriors, became builders of the mightiest empire that he had ever seen. He cried at its perfection, at its beauty.

Just as suddenly as the vision began, it ended. Roboute blinked; he was back in his damned wheelchair, his body filled with dull agony, with a gaggle of genetors picking and preening around him, Titus engrossed in the management of the ground war, and there was a massive bone saw within reach of his hand.

He felt the pull of…something. The vision could not be a coincidence. He could feel it in his bones; his own empire, a better one than this damned Imperium, it was all his…if he killed everyone in the room.

Injured though he was, he was still a Primarch; he could easily do it. And then, just maybe, he could get around to destroying his damned Codex Astartes.

 

* * *

 

Angron was unstoppable. He felt it in his very marrow, and he knew it in the deepest parts of his heart that nothing could stop him. Even being banished to the warp was only delaying the inevitable. No one, _nothing_ , could stop him; least of all Leman Russ.

Howling, he battered the Dog Lord every which way. Angron spun his axe around, whipping it to and fro. Only his muscle-memory developed in the gladiatorial pits kept his barbaric swings from being simple flailing.

Russ ducked and weaved, trying his best to parry the savage blows that Angron was dealing. The great dog stumbled, tripped and nearly fell backwards, pushed about by Angron’s endless assault.

Each backwards step Russ took was a joy to him. Even without the Butcher’s Nails that sat in his brain, or the daemon that had merged with his soul, seeing his brother being driven back in nearly a dead sprint set Angron’s heart ablaze. But with the Butcher’s Nails, with the daemon…it was impossible to resist the lure of the kill.

He pressed his advantage like he was always taught in the gladiator pits. When Leman took a step back, Angron took two forward, making the Lord of Fenris take another step back just to get some breathing room, which made Angron take another two steps forward.

Despite being harried more than he had ever been, Leman was still fighting. Russ swung back, landing glancing blows against his daemon-hard flesh. Each cut could have knocked an Astartes in two, but against Angron, it was hardly more than a tap.

It was pitiful, really. Leman was a Primarch, and he was fighting so poorly.

Leman swept low, no doubt trying to injure his leg and halt his terrible advance. But Angron saw his opening. He pulled his axe high, let the hit land home and ignored the gash to the leg.

He brought the smile of the blade down; Russ was barely able to bring his pauldron around to take the blow. The daemon-axe bit into his armor, tearing it asunder. The raw force of the blow sent Russ to the ground, where he rolled away to his feet.

When Russ jumped back to his feet, he only had to throw himself away again, as Angron was on him within half a second. If Russ was a quarter of a second slower, if Angron had a hair’s breadth further reach, if luck had but waited a picosecond for him, the Wolf Lord would have lost his head. But Russ was fast, his reach was short and luck was still on Leman’s side.

If Leman wasn’t off balance before, he was off-balance now. He could barely bring his sword around to parry and block. He kept being driven back, a step here, a shuffle there, and Angron was on him every step of the way.

All the Daemon-Primarch could see was his damned brother. His damned brother, loyal to a coward, a liar, and a corpse. All he could see was Russ sweating as he was barely able to defend himself. He could practically see Leman’s head, cut from his head and in his hands, ready to be added to the Throne of Khorne. The daemon let him see nothing else. The Butcher’s Nails refused to let him even comprehend anything else.

Every fiber of his being howled for Leman’s blood. He _needed_ to see his brother dead. For the humiliation Russ had showered down on him during the Great Crusades, for the endless anger that burned in his chest, of the shame the Empire dealt him when the Emperor pulled him from his glorious death. In spite of the Butcher’s Nails and the daemon, Angron could remember how arrogant Russ was, before his father was killed. He could still remember how Leman looked down upon him, how all his brothers scorned him.

But with Russ on the ropes, he wasn’t very arrogant now, was he?

Leman was a Primarch, and was undoubtedly healing from the cuts and gashes as the fight went on. But Angron knew that he was dealing more damage than even their gene-perfected bodies could handle. Leman’s armor went from pristine to nearly cut to shreds in what seemed like no time at all. Angron continued to howl.

Finally, Russ well and truly fucked up. He tripped over a rock, and nearly fell to the ground. He was able to catch himself at the last second, but by then, Angron was on him. He brought his axe around as hard and as fast as he could; the daemon that was bound to it was screaming as loud as he was. Even the Butcher’s Nails seemed to be screaming.

The blade swung home. If Angron was a millisecond faster, if Leman was any slower, or his luck even the tiniest bit off, his head would have been lost, cut clean from his body. But it wasn’t. Angron was just slow enough, Russ just fast enough, and luck was still a fickle mistress.

His head was nearly severed; the cut went down to the bone, perhaps even halfway through his spine. Russ fell hard, his hands clutching at the wound. Unless a flesh-mender treated within the next minute, it would be his very death.

“You still cannot beat me!” Angron howled, standing triumphantly over his fallen brother.

“You still don’t know when you’ve lost,” Russ laughed.

“Lost?!” Angron brought the daemon-bound axe above his head, ready to finally kill his brother. “You dare call this--!”

Angron never knew what happened to him. One moment, he was fine, at the very acme of his being. The next, every single cell in his body was in unending agony. The pain was so absolute, so instantaneous, he dropped his axe. He even fell to his knees.

Screaming, he spun around and saw five Null Maidens surrounding him. True to their name as the Sisters of Silence, the five women were utterly quiet. Their very presence dispelled the warp, their Pariah gene shutting down the very connection to the immaterium, and Angron could feel it in his soul.

The daemon bound within him screamed and cried in pain; it was no longer connected to the hell-scape that spawned it, it was no longer powering him with its unholy might. What Angron felt, the daemon felt. And what the daemon felt, he felt. And the daemon was in so much pain it could not move.

With the daemon banished from his mind, no longer driving him to new levels of rage and anger, Angron could finally see clearly; it was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. And he suddenly realized that he was nowhere near the front lines where he was originally fighting.

He was in a massive crater, one that seemed to be caused by the destruction of a Titan. The crater was easily twenty meters wide by thirty long; the only people in it besides him and Russ were the five Sisters of Silence, each at a point around him. And lining the crater were the Sons of Russ.

Realization dawned on Angron. Russ was not simply being pushed back during their fight; he was in a full-blown tactical retreat. Leman was moving through the rubble of Cadia, leading him about by the nose. And in his blind rage, he followed Leman here, wherever ‘here’ was.

There had to be hundreds of Russ’ sons lining the ridge. Nearly all held heavy weapons. There were easily several dozen dreadnaughts, each as heavily armed as the men that stood by them. And Angron was the only one in range.

“Knock him down,” Leman ordered.

Angron bellowed bloody murder as Leman’s sons opened fire on him. He waited to feel the oily pull of the daemon’s unnatural charm, the very charm that could push a lascannon aside, or make a plasma blast suddenly be rendered inert.

But with the Null Maidens, without the connection to the warp to power it, the daemon could do nothing. He screamed as the bullets hit him, howled as the plasma and las-rounds punched through his flesh, and he bellowed at the pain hammered home.

He could feel his wings be shorn from his body, his arms and chest be perforated. His body tried to heal itself, but against such an onslaught of firepower, even he was undone. He fell to the ground, one leg cut from under him. Suddenly, the gunfire stopped.

Rolling around on dead arms, he stared at Russ. The Wolf Lord had pulled himself to his feet, one hand still on his neck. His body was working on healing the massive gash that Angron dealt him, but against such a wound, even Primarchs needed time. In his other hand, he held his blade.

“Brother,” Leman said. He held his sword high, as if presenting it to Angron as a present. “Here is the peace in death that we could not give you in life.”

“Damn your peace,” Angron thrashed, spitting bile and blood, “damn our father, damn…”

In the presence of the Sisters of Silence, the daemon in him was as good as gone. It was powerless; a deaf, dumb passenger. And in its silence, Angron realized just how tired he was.

Without the daemon’s power, he could feel the pain caused by the Butcher’s Nails deep in his head. They pushed him to violence, but at the same time, they ate away at his brain. Without the daemon to offset the rapid cortical damage they were causing, the pain outweighed any benefit they gave him.

Without the Nails and the daemon, Angron could finally be himself. He was tired, and for what felt like the first time in his life, he was sad.

“Dammit, I can’t remember them.”

His gladiator brothers and sisters. The ones who fought to the death in the pits of Nuceria for the amusement of others. The ones who had to endure the Nails such as he did. The ones who followed him as he launched his rebellion. The ones who vowed to die by his side when the ruling elite moved to eradicate them. The ones his father dragged him from, denying him their deaths.

“Remember who?” Leman asked.

“My brothers and sisters,” Angron cried. “The ones who raised me, who fought with me. Who died without me. I can’t remember them. I swore a blood vow, the night we were to die, that I would remember. I would take them to the afterlife with me. But I can’t remember any of them.”

He tried to remember a name. When he couldn’t, he tried to remember a face. When even that failed him, he tried to remember a mannerism. A favorite weapon. A fighting style. Hair color. The sound of their voice.

But there was nothing; the Nails had long ago robbed him of that, ate it from his very brain. He had broken his oath; he had failed them.

“I can’t remember any of them,” Angron cried.

“It’s okay, brother,” Russ said. There was genuine sympathy in his voice, the kind that couldn’t be faked. “You’ll see them again.”

“Will I?” Angron asked, rolling to look Leman in the face.

“You will.”

“Thank you,” Angron said. “Please, end this. Send me to them.”

“Gladly, brother.”

 

* * *

 

Russ raised his sword high, and brought it down as fast as he could. Angron’s head flew from his shoulders, landing at his feet.

He collapsed, clutching his neck. He should never have taken that wound, but his plan needed him bloodied.

“Last time I do that,” he mumbled. “Fekke.”

“Leman!”

A litany of voices was crying out for him. He gently took Angron’s head and closed his eyes as flesh-menders were upon him.

“Are you well?”

“Rest easy, we are here for you.”

“You will not fall here, Jarl.”

They all spoke at once, not even waiting for his permission to begin poking and prodding at his neck.

**+Leman, are you well?+**

Russ grinned as he felt Bjorn approach. The massive dreadnought frame was anything but subtle, and made the ground shake.

“Well enough,” he said.

**+You did it. You finally did it.+**

“Aye, I did.”

 **+Did you have to be so damned reckless?+** Bjorn demanded.

“I needed Angron alone, away from his troops,” Russ said. “I had to draw him out, and the best way to draw him out is with blood. Speaking of troops, are we in danger of being overrun?”

**+No, not yet. Our troops are holding the lines. A few traitors were able to break through, but they are being contained. And Corax is launching a counter-attack at the traitors to put them back in their place. If the traitors haven’t broken against him yet, they will soon.+**

“And Corax is having fun?”

**+I think he’s making up for the Drop Site Massacre.+**

“Good. He’s gotta get it out of his system.,” Russ said. He turned to the Null Maidens. “Angron’s dead, isn’t he?”

The lead Sister signed back, her hand a blur of movement as she replied in Astartes battle-sign.

_There’s no connection to the warp for the daemon to run and drag him back to. He is dead._

“No chance to come back?”

_What part of ‘he’s dead, Leman,’ do you not understand?_

“Oh, I understand it,” he said, “but I want to make sure. He has to meet his brothers and sisters.” He sighed as the flesh-menders put his neck back together. “Get in touch with Corax. Find out how his attack is going, and augment it as necessary. Bjorn, I leave it to you. I just need an hour or so to get over this fight.”

**+Understood, sire.+**

“Frost’s balls, I _never_ want to do that again.”

 

* * *

 

The grenade sat in a simple carrying case. The plush red velvet that lined the case was worn, both in color as well as in texture. It was unevenly worn, with splotches of odd even velvet and rough patches. The red in many places was worn from existence; there were simply bald, dull, washed out, puke-patterned splotch of fabric.

The box itself was made of ornate wood that was cared for far more than its red velvet lining. It had obviously received well-timed maintenance, with cleaning and staining. The box was absolutely beautiful to behold. But Maeva was more focused on the grenade than the box; the reverence was lost to her.

“Tha’ it? Don’t seem like much, yea?” Maeva picked up the grenade. Despite her cavalier tone, she was careful with the grenade, picking it up like it was made from the most fragile-spun glass.

“I would be careful with that,” Geist said. “The requisition order was only approved because of the Crusades. Even then, the Inquisition armory was hesitant to distribute it.”

“I’m careful, I’m real careful,” Maeva promised. “Damn scary stuff, eh?”

“It is. Psyk-out grenades are anathema to psykers.”

“Just wha’ we need ta get our girl back, eh?”

“Just what we need,” Geist smiled. She found that if she smiled, her conditioning would lessen, but only a bit. “What is the next step?”

“Well, if I’m readin’ th’ schematic right, we gotta stick this in a floor junction, then pray to th’ ancestors this whole thin’ works.”

“That means bringing in a weapon to the Emperor’s chambers.”

“Yea, now we gotta find a way ta get this in past th’ Custodes.”

“Leave that to me,” Geist smiled.

“Ya got a plan? Really now?”

Geist’s smile faltered.

“Sorry, but I’m Fenrisian,” Maeva said. “I’m good at spottin’ bravado.”

“I’ll amend my disguise so it will fool you next time.”

“I love ya too,” Maeva laughed. “So wha’ ya got in mind?”

“Nothing gains entry to the Golden Throne without a thorough search,” Geist said. “I’ve seen it more than a few times when we were on Terra. I have something in mind to sneak the grenade passed the check point, but it’s a long shot.”

“This whole thin’s a long shot ta got our Laura back. How’s this any different?”

“A good point. But I believe that we’ll have something working for us. The only way we will return to Holy—uh, just Terra, would be when the Crusades are over. With the return of many Primarchs and the defeat of the forces of Chaos, security might not be as tightly focused on servitors.”

“Good thin’ ya good at makin’ servitor disguises.”

“Damn good, indeed.”

Maeva put the grenade back in the worn-out box. Geist closed it, and gingerly took the box.

“This one—I’ll store this is my personal belongings. All we have to do now is wait for our forces to push the traitors back. Then we can save our Little Laura.”

“Yea, we’ll crush those damn traitors real quick,” Maeva smiled. “Got a real good feelin’ ‘bout it. It’s in our wyrd.”

 

* * *

 

“What is the damn meaning of this!” Perturabo bellowed. His scream of annoyance and rage seemed to drown out the din of battle. The little voice in his head was just as angry as he was; perhaps even more angry.

“S-sire, the Ultramarines have withdrawn their assault lines,” the puny Iron Warrior said. His fear threatened to make him shake, but he held still enough for the Daemon-Primarch.

“Then you push them back to their own lines! Must I spell it out?”

“But two mechanized squadrons moved in to pin down our troops. We could not push the attack, and our lines have not moved.”

The little voice in his head spat in annoyance, and Perturabo swept the table clean of troop pieces. His grand plan to move upon the Loyalist’s lines was shot to shit.

“The Codex Astartes does not cover such damned maneuvers!” He raged. “Their minds are too feeble to even comprehend any other course of action! They should be pushed to the defensive, laid to siege!”

The terrified Warrior bowed respectfully while back peddling furiously. Perturabo glared at the map, weighing his options. His sons were strong as iron, but with the constant maneuvers by Guilliman’s forces, they were pushed on their back foot, forced to re-build their ranks to repulse the next attack, or to shift defensible positions to protect themselves from different attacks.

It was a cunning strategy. Perturabo knew it because he deployed it countless times during the Crusade and Horus’ Rebellion. It was _his_ strategy; he was supposed to be the breaker of sieges, not the defender of them.

“S-sire.” The Legionnaire returned, no doubt bringing more news. “It’s Angron, sire.”

“What has that damned simpleton done now?”

“He’s dead, sire.”

That got Perturabo to stop. Even the little voice in his head was quiet, and it was always whispering something.

“Dead? As in ‘sent back to the warp,’ or dead as in ‘finally, he’s dead?’”

“The latter, sire. He was fighting Leman Russ, and the Dog Lord lured him into an ambush of Silent Sisters. They cut off his retreat to the warp, and they killed him.”

Perturabo didn’t know if to laugh or cry. Out of all of his brothers, Angron was the one who always surprised him by _not_ dying.

“So my damn fool brother finally fucking died,” Perturabo snarled. “What are his men doing?”

“They are…being overrun, sire,” the Legionnaire said. “With their Primarch dead, they have been driven mad. Well, madder than they normally are, that is.”

“Are they fighting?”

“They are, but they have lost any sense of intelligence.”

Perturabo gave him a hard look.

“Again, more so than normal. The dogs and the crows are having no trouble rounding them up, outflanking them and encircling them, or leading them to kill zones. Their ranks are collapsing.”

“And with it, the Western edge,” Perturabo growled. He took a handful of discarded blocks and placed them back on the board. The Loyalists were getting frighteningly close to their central landing zone. The little voice in his head whispered suggestions.

“What is the status of Mortarion?”

“He is engaged with Khan of the White Scars. And Fulgrim’s forces have been assaulted by the Lion and the Dark Angels.”

“Then they are all tied down.”

“But the Death Guard are holding.”

“And if they continue to hold, they will be surrounded as well,” Perturabo snapped. “We are being outmaneuvered. We should be the ones lying siege to this damned planet, not taking it!”

The Daemon-Primarch growled, scanning the map. There had to be forces that were available somewhere. Then he saw a mass of forces on the outskirts of his quadrant. The voice was whispering to him.

“Can we raise the Despoiler on vox?”

“Yes, sire, we can.”

“Then contact him.”

“B-but sire…”

“The Despoiler’s forces are strong, armed, disciplined, and above all, relatively un-harassed,” Perturabo said. “We need each other if we are to bring the Imperium to ruin. We will work together.”

“Understood, sire. I’ll bring a vox caster.”

Perturabo let the Warrior go; he paid him no mind as he examined the battlefield map. Yes, the Despoiler’s forces would do nicely. Of course, he would have to rid himself of the Despoiler the first chance he got, but he was good at solving problems.

The first order of business would be to bolster the dying western border. Then it would be to support the Dark Mechanicus’ Titan Legions; the Loyalists were gaining a slight edge, and that could not be accepted.

When the vox caster was brought to him, the little voice in the back of his head told Perturabo exactly what to say, how to say it, and most importantly, when to take the Black Legion for himself.

 

* * *

 

Flugrim was always a show-off. Always going for grand theatrics, always showboating and regal. But for all his flashy moves, his showboating was well earned; it was backed up by his titanic skill. And with a total of four arms, he was easily able to keep Lion at bay.

The four swords spun this way and that, keeping Lion on his toes. When Lion thought one was being brought around to attack, two more lunged out of their synchronized dance to try and impale him. Many attacks have landed, turned away by his armor, but said armor was quickly becoming dented and battered, its protection grinding down by the constant attacks.

“What’s the matter, _brother?_ ” Fulgrim lazily laughed. “Out of practice?”

Lion kept his mouth shut. He would not sink to that level and yell back. Let the proud and the boastful brag unnecessarily; they will slip eventually. Besides, Fulgrim’s four arms was commanding all of his attention. If he paid his goading too much mind and spoke up, he might truly slip up.

Grunting, he knocked a sword away and lunged forward, pushing his luck for all it was worth. Fulgrim grinned and slithered back, dipping the points of his sword down to discourage Lion from advancing further. Fulgrim pushed his attack, and Lion went back to defending himself.

One sword glanced off his grieve. A second he was able to bat away. But the third and the fourth landed home, dragging against his armor. One found purchase at his elbow, sliding into the crevice of the joint. White-hot pain lanced through Lion’s arm, but he bit his tongue.

Fulgrim laughed at the pain he was causing, but Lion saw an opening. He jerked his impaled arm back, causing the sword to cut deeper into his arm. But the motion pulled Fulgrim off-balance. Lion’s laughing brother suddenly shut his mouth as he unconsciously checked his balance. His arms spun around as the most basic part of his brain rebelled, fighting to keep him upright.

It was what Lion was looking for. He moved in close to the stumbling Fulgrim, and he sunk the point of his sword deep into the chest of his former brother. The tip of the blade punched through the armor, slid into his chest, and burst out the back, spraying blood across the room.

“Oh, _brother,_ you touch me so deeply,” Fulgrim sighed. It was not the reaction that Lion was expecting.

He pushed his sword deeper, but the only reaction was a sigh of pleasure from Fulgrim. Lion’s stomach dropped out from under him; he realized that Fulgrim had more arms than he did, and they were all armed.

Lion saw the first blade circling high. He was able to twist out of the way, the blade glancing off the back of his pauldron. The second he was able to block with his impaled arm, the white-hot pain making him blink. Fulgrim held onto the sword that was deep in his arm, trying to turn him away, but Lion didn’t let him. The final blade swung at his head. Somehow he was able to drop to a knee to avoid the decapitating blow.

He had to get out of there. Lion aimed a vicious kick at Fulgrim’s snake body, hopefully hitting him in the general region of where his testicles were; it was hard to tell with a snake’s body. He pulled his sword from Fulgrim’s chest, and jumped, nearly threw, himself backwards. His arm burned with pain as the sword was pulled from it.

It was only when Lion was back on his feet did he realize that Fulgrim left him with half a dozen little cuts against his skin. Many were already healing, but being hurt without knowing it made him realize how skilled Fulgrim truly was.

“Hurt, _brother?_ ” Fulgrim laughed as he casually advanced on Lion. It was like he never even felt the sword that ran him through. Either that, or he just didn’t care about the pain. Lion drew his pistol and let lose a stream of rounds, just to keep Fulgrim at bay while he recovered.

Just as he expected, none of the rounds truly did anything. They were either pushed away by the damned daemon’s charm, or they impacted off Fulgrim’s body, doing nothing. But they gave him a few more seconds; he could already feel his arm knitting back together.

“Now you’re desperate,” Fulgrim chuckled. “I guess it’s time to end this, _brother._ ”

Damn the vain bastard. Lion brought his sword to bare, just as Fulgrim launched himself at him. In an attempt to become flawless in every way, Fulgrim learned much of the way of the sword. And Lion had spent the last ten millennia is stasis.

“I have the perfect spot for your head, _brother,_ ” Fulgrim laughed. “Right next to my picture. Quite grotesque, wouldn’t you think?”

Lion couldn’t help himself. His eyes darted over Fulgrim’s shoulder to see the picture he mentioned. It was when Fulgrim wasn’t this damn daemon, but a full human. He was flawless in every way, with perfect hair, perfectly clear skin, and armor that shone like the golden sun. Too bad the picture was of him apparently begging.

Fulgrim in the picture looked like he was screaming, almost as if he was crying out to Lion and Lion alone. His hands were to his chest, like he was pointing to something on his armor. But Lion couldn’t pay it much more mind. He went back to trying to find a new opening to exploit.

His eyes drifted over the picture, just for a split second. He did a quick double-take; the painting had moved. Fulgrim in the picture was now leaning back, simultaneously covering his face while pulling at his hair, the very image of agony and shame.

Were his eyes deceiving him? A glancing blow off his shoulder brought Lion’s attention back to the fight.

But the thought of the painting unnerved him. He spared another look at it, and Fulgrim in the painting was leaning against the unseen glass frame, one hand at his breast the other jabbing at his chest, almost as if he was stabbing himself.

Every time Lion blinked or looked away, the painting _definitely_ moved, and it seemed to want to die. Whatever the reason for the strange painting, Fulgrim had brought it from the warp, to this planet. It was obviously important; it could possibly even hurt his wayward brother if Lion destroyed it. With Fulgrim’s two-arm advantage, it was the only plan that Lion could think of.

He carefully maneuvered himself around Fulgrim, moving around the edge of the chapel until he was being driven back to the painting. Fulgrim hounded him all the way, just waiting for him to slip up. But Lion was moving closer to the painting. All was going well until Fulgrim saw where he was going.

“No,” he cried. “Don’t!”

Lion jumped back, bringing his sword to the painting. Fulgrim in the painting looked like he was crying tears of joy, presenting his breast to the sword. Fuglrim in real life had a look of pure horror to his face.

“You can’t!” He cried. “Please, listen to me. There’s a terrible daemon in that painting, one I spent a very long time wrestling with. You have to believe me, that is a daemon of incredible power; I couldn’t fight against it for years. I was able to trap it by cunning misdirection, and it would surely have learned not to fall for such a thing in the future.

“Please, put your sword down. You cannot let it out, it would be the undoing of both of us. Please.”

Lion didn’t know what was in the painting, but it was the only plan he could think of that would put him in control of the fight. But a daemon that was powerful enough to hold a Primarch at bay? He might get a lucky blow in with Fuglrim, but he doubted he could stand against a daemon that powerful.

The point lowered.

“That’s it, you can’t let it out,” Fulgrim said. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “That’s it. _Brother._ ”

It was the condescending tone, the way Fulgrim said ‘brother’ that drove Lion over the edge. The point bit through the canvas, and he slashed the entire thing in half. The scream that came from Fulgrim was magnitudes louder than the sound of canvas tearing.

He howled and dropped all four swords as he fell to the ground, violently thrashing. A whirlwind-like force blew through the chapel, making Lion check his footing to press himself against the gale. He tasted something on his tongue, almost like it was a copper coin, only somehow spoiled.

Fulgrim thrashed for nearly a minute while Lion watched on. Eventually, Fulgrim stopped, lying on the ground, gasping for breath. Lion took a step forward to see what his brother was up to.

“Don’t!”

Lion didn’t stop because of Fulgrim’s words, he stopped because of the sudden shriek. Gone was the confidence, the mocking tone, the sense of control. Fulgrim yelled like a scared mortal man, not a Primarch.

“Don’t come near me!” Fulgrim shrieked, holding two hands up as if that were all that was keeping Lion from moving. Lion looked at the painting he destroyed.

Instead of Fulgrim being in the picture, it was a monstrous multi-armed Keeper of Secrets, crudely and grotesquely painted. Gone were the smooth lines and pleasing colors; the painting looked like a harsh metal brush was used to create it, with colors so radical it hurt his eyes. Each time Lion closed his eyes or looked away, the monster’s pose changed. At first it was screaming at him, then it was howling, pulling at the numerous tusks that broke through its skin. Then the daemon was spitting and making rude gestures to make up for a lack of a voice.

“Fulgrim?”

He took a step forward, and Fulgrim tried to slither further back.

“No, you can’t,” Fulgrim cried. “I don’t know when this damned thing will be back. You have to, please, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Fulgrim was completely undone. Tears poured down his face, and his four arms pawed at the ground, trying to pull himself further away from Lion. It was like he was unable to use his body, that it was foreign to him.

“Who are you?” Lion demanded.

“I thought I was Fulgrim,” his brother cried. “I thought that for the longest time. But then the daemon came, and I don’t know what I am anymore.”

Fulgrim collapsed.

“Oh, Ferrus,” he howled. “I never wanted to kill you. Please…”

Lion took a step forward, but just hearing his footfalls made Fulgrim thrash about.

“No! You can’t come any closer! I might hurt you, kill you! It might make me!”

Fulgrim slithered away, one set of hands flung up as if to feebly protect himself, the other set wrapped around his twisted body.

Lion was suddenly reminded of Luther. Both men were being used by unseen forces, the very forces that wanted to destroy the Imperium and his father’s dream.

“If you never wanted this, what do you want?” Lion gripped his sword tighter, just in case this was a damned ruse.

“I…I don’t know. Ferrus, dammit, I killed Ferrus. I…I…”

Fulgrim looked up at Lion.

“What I did, what I fell for, is unforgivable,” he cried. “Please, just kill me and be done with it.”

Lion looked at his fallen brother. Maybe having another Primarch at their disposal would be beneficial.

“If you are looking for redemption, you must earn it yourself,” he said. “You betrayed Ferrus. If you want to redeem yourself, then help us fight.”

“I took his head. How can I be trusted again?”

“You would not. But I will keep you under close eye, and my sons would be ready to give you the death you seek at a moment’s notice. And the guns that will watch you will be very, very big.”

Fulgrim laid on the ground, silent as he contemplated what Lion was giving him.

“And when I die?” He finally asked.

“Then I hope the Gorgon will find your last act of defiance suitable.”

“Ferrus…”

Fulgrim pulled himself to a standing position. Without any feet, he had a difficult time. He had to use all four of his swords to gain his balance. Finally, tottering, he stood.

“You should have just killed me,” he said. “The daemon might return.”

“And if the daemon does not, then you are free to reap a great tally,” Lion said.

“Ferrus would like that,” Fulgrim mumbled.

“He would.”

Fulgrim looked up. Lion realized that there were still the sounds of battle coming from the hallway that lead him to the main cathedral. His sons were still embattled.

“Let me,” Fulgrim said. He spoke without confidence and grace, but Lion let him. If the daemon was playing him for a fool, it was doing a very good job of it.

Fulgrim slithered through the ruined chapel, making his way to the hallway. The swords in his hands shook.

“I don’t know if I’m in control,” he mumbled. “I don’t know.”

“Then prove you are.”

Rounding a corner, they came upon a group of daemonettes. They laughed and cheered as they pressed Lion’s sons back towards the entrance of the chapel.

“You can’t help your father, you dull little boys,” they laughed. “Aah, here’s our master! Nothing can—“

The swords in Fulgrim’s hands were blurs as they cut the daemons down. The first few strokes were awkward slices, but Fulgrim’s years of practice soon won out, and within a few seconds, he was swinging the blade like he was born with it.

With the daemons dead, Lion’s sons warily trained their weapons on Fulgrim.

“Please, don’t get too close to me,” Fulgrim begged.

His sons didn’t move.

“Move back,” Lion said.

His sons traded looks, but obediently obeyed.

“Fulgrim is in control of himself, but may be possessed by a daemon at any moment,” Lion said. “He has one chance at redemption. He will lead the charge against the enemy. But in case the daemon returns, we must be prepared. Summon tactical veterans, Terminators and dreadnoughts; should Fulgrim fall, they will give him the peace he looks for.”

“Understood, sire,” a sergeant said. The tone in his voice said otherwise, but it was what Lion expected.

“What is the status of our assault?”

“We are stalling out. The traitor Luther still lives, along with a handful of his Fallen bastards, but they are failing to make any headway.”

“That is where you shall go, Fulgrim,” Lion said. “And I will be watching you. Should you fall, it will be your last.”

“Thank you,” Fulgrim said. 

“Clear the way,” Lion said. “We are going back to the front.”


	36. Crusade’s End

“Sire?”

Roboute blinked. Somehow, he had fallen asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Sire, are you well?” It was one of his sons. What was his name? Titus!

“What is going on?”

“I need your opinion.”

“Let me see the map.”

His massive wheelchair was pushed towards the holographic display. His attention was anywhere else.

“The traitor lines are merging,” Titus said. “It appears they have learned the value of working together, of using the same singular chain of command. The Black Legion is linking up with the Iron Warriors, and seem to be pressing…”

The vision still burned after-images on his brain. His own empire, his own glorious expanse of mankind. Everything was built to his desire. Everything in order, everything in its right place. And him alive and well, overseeing the expansion, crushing all who resisted it.

He saw himself as ruler of the galaxy. Him, and him alone. And Roboute knew that to have that dream, all he had to do was kill everyone in the room.

The bone saw was close to his hand.

Wait, what was he thinking? Him, ruler of the galaxy? Roboute shook his head.

He was the _builder_ , not the _ruler_. Ruling was solely his father’s expertise. He was trusted to build the very foundation of the Imperium, to make it a place where humanity could flourish. Even after the great betrayals at Istvaan and Calth, when Ultramar was cut off from the rest of the Imperium and he made the Imperium Secundus, even then he didn’t choose to become the ruler; he had given that honor to Sanguinius.

He was a builder, not a ruler. He was a general, not a statesman. What was he even thinking, being able to run his own empire? Was this some kind of sick test?

Suddenly, his heart caught in his throat. Was this what Horus saw when he turned from his father’s path? Was this the damned Ruinous Powers that he had heard much about? He had to admit, they were awfully convincing.

No, he was dying, that was that. But Titus, Titus gave him hope. Maybe his sons could be saved from their own blindness. Maybe they could see that his greatest work wasn’t so great anymore. Not when it was assumed as an iron-clad truth.

“…sire? Genetors, what is ailing my Primarch?” Titus demanded.

“We…we don’t know, lord,” the tech priest Legato said weakly.

“The Emperor cured him! He should be recovering!”

“But his Larraman’s Organ is practically dissolving in front of us,” Legato said. “And as it dissolves, it’s creating a noxious poison. We don’t know what is causing it.”

“Then find a way to augment it. Purify his blood, he cannot—“

“It is fine.”

“Sire…?”

“I said, it is fine,” Roboute said. “Whatever is killing me is beyond even my father. Mother. Whatever the Emperor wants to be called now.”

“But sire, you cannot pass,” Titus pleaded. “Whom shall lead us?”

“You have done a decent job of it so far.”

“But we have waited for you to return to us.”

“And sadly, I will be leaving you,” Roboute said. “My father is strong, but I do not think even he could stand against fate for very long. I was a dead man when Fulgrim sunk that blade into my chest. It had just taken…how long was I in stasis?”

“Nearly ten thousand years, sire,” Titus said.

“Then it nearly took ten thousand years to get to me. But it is here for me now; I can’t ignore it. You’ll have to do without me.”

Titus looked ready to fall to his knees.

“There are still a few things that I would like to do,” he said. “Is there a Rememberencer here?”

“Sire, we use servo-skulls now,” Legato said.

“Then bring me one of those damned skulls, I still have a few lessons to teach my sons.”

“The men would never follow me without you,” Titus said. “They think I am a latent traitor.”

“Then use my name when I am gone,” Roboute said. “We have to win this war, else the traitors will put Terra under siege again.”

“Please, sire. They would never believe me.”

“Have they asked to talk to me since you took command? Have they asked to hear my voice, telling them to do what you have already told them to do?”

“No, sire, they have not.”

“Then let me go. Please, the pain of dying is killing me. Let me find my peace. You have already made me proud, but there are a few things that I must address.”

Something spun in the field of his view. Roboute had to focus on it before he realized it was a floating skull.

“The red light means it is recording, lord,” Legato said.

“Ah, right. Titus, you have men to lead. Ignore me.” He turned to face the floating skull. So macabre. He missed the human Rememberancers that were attached to his legions. They were much better. Charming, relatable, and human.

“My name is Roboute Guilliman. Soon I will be dead. Before I pass, I want to record a few messages for my sons and their Successor Chapters.”

The image of his own empire shone brightly in his mind, but he ignored them. They didn’t show him his father, or his brothers. It was only him, and he would never focus on himself. He already had his chance to be the leader of another Imperium, but he could not stand such a title, just as he couldn’t stand it now. No, just being the nameless builder of empires would be enough for him.

 

* * *

 

The traitor howled.

He was a screaming, frothing-at-the-mouth berserker of the Blood God. To have survived this long, no, to have _thrived_ this long, he must have butchered thousands. And to be here, on this spot on Cadia, meant that he had to cut hundreds of threads, both of brother Astartes and mortals alike.

He was dangerous, walking death. At least, he was before Katla finally cut his thread.

Aevar brought his thunder hammer across his chest, holding her close while keeping the shaft high. The Khorne Berserker’s axe bit against the pure adamantium rod, finding no purchase. Aevar twisted his hips and dropped his legs. Katla pushed the axe off her, all while bringing her killing surface to bear. It hit the traitor dead in the helmet. Katla sparked, thunder cracked, and the traitor was turned to bloody bits before him.

“Throne dammit, I miss this!” He howled as he moved onto the next traitor. “How many is that for you, Helfist?”

“Shit, greybeard, I lost count at fifteen,” the Rune Priest laughed. He was surrounded by the green spirits of Fenris. He had kept the blessing up for what seemed like hours, even days; Fenris was truly feeling grateful for giving him the spirits of the dead heroes for this long. Then again, this was the Black Crusade. The heroes must be begging for a chance to be in this murder-make.

Helfist used his boosted strength to sink his fist deep into a traitor’s chest. He pulled one of his hearts from the gaping hole and crushed it without a second thought. As the traitor fell over, dead, Vermund wove another blessing for the squad, giving them endurance that would only be rivaled by a Primarch.

Aevar laughed like he was a damned Blood Claw again, his voice adding to the cheer and battle-hymns that surrounded the Sons of Russ. Being in exile for over twenty years had given him quite the appetite for destruction, war and the murder-make. And in the bloody grounds of Cadia, there was plenty to be had.

“Fucking Hel, I haven’t been this alive since gorram Armageddon!” He howled as he crushed yet another berserker. They had fought like madmen, but in the last hour they seemed to turn lose yet again. They hit harder, faster, and more often, but his armor was strong, and Katla and Iounn seemed to be drawn to exactly where they were needed to be to cut a thread.

Maybe it was the twenty-plus years of exile and blue-balled, pent-up aggression. Maybe it was the Black Crusade. Maybe it was the chance to fight with Russ himself. Whatever the reason, Aevar was beyond top form. He was slaughter, murder incarnate, like so many other of his brothers. They matched the ferocity of the berserkers. They tested them, and found the traitors wanting.

Wave upon wave of traitors crashed upon them, but they were able to push them back.

“It’s like we pissed them off or something,” he laughed as he swept the legs out from under a group of traitors. Katla sung, tearing their legs from their bodies. He switched to Iounn, and put a bolt in each of their heads. Then it was back to battling the next berserker who thought he could cut his thread.

“Who would’ve thought,” Helifst laughed as three chainaxes hit him. Each ground, but found no purchase on his iron-wrought muscles. He killed two with his punches while Aevar took the last one. “Glory hog.”

“Sorry, got blue balls from exile. Need to get this out.”

“You and me both, greybeard,” Helfist said. He nodded over Aevar’s head. “I’m just glad that the Claws are keeping up with us.”

Aevar turned minutely, slapping a new magazine into Iounn. He peered over his shoulder while hearing the many sounds of battle. Sure enough, there were a group of Claws that were so Throne-damned lucky, they never seemed to die.

“ _Fenrys hjolda!_ ” He yelled.

“ _Fenrys hjolda!_ ” His brothers yelled. And the traitors replied in kind with a mindless bellow of fury. But theirs was weaker. Aevar saw the next berserker hesitate. Katla cut his thread, and the next traitor was slower to launch himself into the fray.

“They’re scared!” Helfist bellowed as he dove headlong into a small group of berserkers. They didn’t mindlessly throw themselves at Helfist like they always did; they let him attack. Vermund brought his hands together and crushed one, smashed him into giblets. “They’re fucking scared!”

“Then let’s keep pushing them!” Aevar laughed. “Come on, _one_ of you has to be good in a brawl!”

 

* * *

 

Jaghatai Khan hissed as he brought his bike around. The massive war machine pivoted on a dime; it floated, the boosters kicking in to spin the front end up and around. It came up at just the right time. Any later, and Mortarion’s damned reaper would have found his armor. Any sooner, and he would have missed his dodge all together.

His bike shook as the massive scythe clattered against it. He gave it more gas, and it pushed the blade down, leaving his fallen brother open to attack. He swung his sword around, hitting Mortarion dead in the neck.

But Mortarion was not the Primarch he used to be. The damn daemon that corrupted his flesh made him impossibly tough. His sword clattered off his twisted, rotting flesh. Jaghatai boosted back, just as Mortarion moved in closing, swinging high and wide.

The point of the scythe punched through the thick metal of his jet bike. The blade sunk deep into the machine, and Jaghatai could feel it die. He leapt from it, just as Mortarion unleashed a barrage of gunfire straight at the rider’s seat from his wrist-mounted gun.

“Your pitiful bike is dead,” his former brother said, pulling his scythe lose. “You will join it.”

“It might be dead, but it’s still got its use,” the Great Khan said, rolling to his feet.

“What does it do, make threatening insults?” Mortarion laughed, his massive wings beating the air. But he stayed on the ground; Mortarion wanted to kill him personally.

“No, it doesn’t,” Jaghatai smiled. “When it is alive, it’s a bike. But when it dies…”

Mortarion paused, either from his smile or from his cryptic message.

“Fine, I will bite,” he said. “When it dies, what does it do?”

“It doesn’t do anything, brother,” the Khan said. “It just turns into a nuncio-vox.”

“A locator beacon?”

“The very same,” the Khan smiled.

The air split apart in a brilliant burst of light. Mortarion was stunned by the sudden arrival. He was so stunned he didn’t see Vulkan’s hammer coming. He took the hit dead center of his head, and for the first time in their nearly hour-long fight, was knocked back.

Reeling, Mortarion made an easy target. Jaghatai leapt in, swinging with all his might. This time, his sword found good purchase. It tore open one of his membranous wings, and opened a great gash along Mortarion’s side. The stench that rolled off him hit the great Khan harder than any hit he had taken. The sheer noxious smell made him pause, give Mortarion room to recover.

“So, you need help with this fight,” he chuckled, shaking off the massive blow that Vulkan unleashed. “How pathetic.”

“I’m sorry, you confused us with someone who gives a fuck,” Jaghatai grinned.

“There’s no shame in killing a traitor,” Vulkan spat. “Your time has come, _brother_.”

“Do not say that, you sound like damned Fulgrim.”

Vulkan leapt at Mortarion. He went too high, and his fallen brother brought his scythe to bear. The tip punched through the underside of Vulkan’s mouth, and out the top of his head. Vulkan went limp as Mortarion threw his lifeless body aside.

“That did not last long, did it?” He chuckled. “It does not have to end like this, brother. You could accept Grandfather Nurgle into your life; you will be welcomed with open arms, and we could make the galaxy shake.”

“I’d rather see our father’s plan come to completion,” he said. “I can see his true goal; the survival of the human race. A unified race, whom has beaten every challenge, and turned an uncaring galaxy into a place safe for all.”

“You are hopelessly disillusioned,” Mortarion spat. “There is only death and decay. And the master of it is Nurlge. All must die.”

“You’d be surprised what doesn’t die,” the great Khan laughed.

Just as Mortarion was about to say something, Vulkan leapt up from behind him and brought his hammer down dead center of Mortiaron’s head. Somehow, his fallen brother clung to life and was able to jump away from being cornered.

“I killed you!” Mortarion bellowed.

“I got better,” Vulkan said.

“You were? Then the rumors are true,” Mortarion said. “You are a Perpetual. Nurgle hates Perpetuals. But at the same time…”

He never got the chance to finish. Vulkan swung wide, and Mortarion realized that by turning to face Vulkan, he forgot about Jaghatati.

The Great Khan cut opened another gash across Mortarion’s side. The toxic flesh began knitting itself, but it would take time to fully heal. Vulkan’s hammer kept pounding Mortarion, testing the famously resilient Primarch.

“You escaped me once,” Jaghatati spat. “Not again. This hunt will end!”

“It will end with me banished from this realm,” his former brother said. “You have achieved nothing!”

“You thought I was the only one who teleported towards the beacon?” Vulkan chuckled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaghatati spied the approaching black-suited figures. They might not be Sisters of Silence, but according to his sons and Vulkan’s, they were the exact same: Pariahs. Men and women of whom were born without souls, taken in by the Inquisition to be trained to become deadly assassins. They were Culexus assassins, and they were the very anathema to anything that drew power from the warp.

Their simple presence caused Mortarion to howl with pain; being this close to assassins had undoubtedly sucked the daemon’s energy from his soul, paralyzing him with pain. Jaghatati felt nothing but relief as the world just began to feel right. No more warp, no more witchery. Just the ground beneath his feet and his sword in his hand.

“Alright Russ, you had _one_ good idea for once in your life,” he chuckled. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Mortarion fell to his knees. The presence of the soulless had robbed him of any damned power the daemon gave him. Vulkan hammered at him, hitting him again and again. Jaghatati brought his sword to bear, slashing again and again. He would carve his traitorous brother until nothing was left but bits and pieces.

“Keep at him,” he yelled to Vulkan. “He has to collapse eventually.”

Mortarion moved. Somehow, he fucking moved. He should have been paralyzed with pain; the daemon had his soul wrapped around him. The pain the daemon felt should have been magnified a dozen times over. But the bastard moved.

The Great Khan moved on instinct. The air whistled mere inches from his face as Mortarion’s scythe nearly took his damn head. And he kept moving.

Jaghatati hissed with frustration as he threw himself backwards, just avoiding the follow up slice. Mortarion might have been slowed, either from the presence of the Coulexus assassins or from Vulkan’s hammer blows, but he made up for it by putting every ounce of strength into the swing.

“Vulkan, hold him,” he cried. Vulkan’s hammer rang out, the sound of thunder being split, but Mortarion seemed to ignore the grievous damage.

“If I must fall, then you fall with me,” Mortarion screamed. He moved with what seemed to be no pain, but his voice was full of nothing but pain and suffering. “I _will_ see you fall!”

 

* * *

 

Death.

Death was all the daemon could think about.

Ever since his ship entered the warp and the daemons befell them, all that Mortarion could think about was death.

The ever-present rot. The natural conclusion of natural life. The end of suffering, the end of struggles, the end of the endless cycle of cellular repairs to stave off the inevitable end that awaited all.

He even thought about the inevitable death of heat itself. It was all that the damn daemon could think about.

It was more than a splinter in his mind. It was what his mind could only think about. It was his fixation, his raison d'etre.

When the black-clad monstrosities appeared, and severed his connection to the warp, the daemon that possessed him howled in pain. But at the same time, it laughed. It laughed and wept with joy; death was at hand. Its death, as well as his own.

And it wanted more death, more to end so more could begin. How could one create if one did not erase the previous work?

So Mortarion fought. He fought the only one who could actually be killed: Jaghatati. Vulkan was a perversion, one who could not end. The daemon, writhing in pain as the connection to its birthplace was severed, screamed at him to kill, to end the life of Jaghatati. In all the years before now, the daemon had only whispered to him; its screams were more painful than Vulkan’s hammer blows.

Perhaps his desire to obey the daemon was because time traveled differently in the warp. Whereas a mere ten thousand years had passed to the realms of man, the entire lifespan of the galaxy had passed for Mortarion.

He had witnessed the galaxy been born, saw its birth pains, had witnessed its rapid adolescence growth, saw its expansion grow to a halt and saw every nanosecond of its collapse. He saw the beginning and the end; the daemon made him watch. He saw the beauty of beginning, middle and end, and saw that all had to end. He saw what the daemon saw, what Nurgle had professed, and knew its truth. He knew he had to obey the daemon above all.

So when the daemon told him that Jaghatati had to die, he knew that he had to kill the bastard.

Everything hurt, but he was used to pain; every breath on his home world was pain. Each time he swung his scythe was agony, and every step he took was pain unlike he had ever experienced. He couldn’t care about the pain. It was a simple matter of existing; so it goes, by Nurgle’s decree.

He swung, and landed a blow. The tip of his scythe punched through Jaghatati’s top-knot. It split his skull and traveled down his head, cleaving his brain in two and even plowing through his neck. The tip was able to slide down, sinking down to his heart.

Death was immediate. Just as Nurgle decreed.

Vulkan cried out. Just when Mortarion was sure than his brother could hit no harder, he was proven wrong. The next blow from Vulkan’s hammer cracked his armor clean open, split his skin, and liquefied his very bones. It was a light tap compared to the next blow.

The daemon inside him laughed. Mortarion laughed. Death came to all, even him. Even to Nurgle. He truly felt every blow. He could feel his organs rupture and liquefy, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but laugh. The daemon didn’t make him laugh, it was in too much pain. But at the same time, he knew it was what the daemon would make him do. And if spending an eternity with a daemon as his only companion made him realize one thing and one thing only, it was that the daemon was always right. He had to do what the daemon did, so he laughed.

He was laughing until Vulkan brought his hammer down for the last time. Then everything went black. The End finally came for Mortarion, just like Nurgle decreed.

 

* * *

 

The traitor’s lines were moving.

They were moving to grid G-5. That left an open sector that was just behind them. He still had assault troops in reserve; they would land in the open ground, and link up with a Decurion group to the south. It would split their lines. And on the off-chance the Alpha Legion was playing them for fools, there were enough available Thunderhawks in the air to rescue them.

“All assault units, strike now,” Titus commanded.

_If we defile the Codex any more, we will ask the Black Legion if we can join them,_ a bitter sergeant spat.

“Strike now, and we can push them back,” Titus growled. “I do not ask that you respect me, but you _will_ respect the rank I hold, _sergeant_. Sire!”

Guilliman stirred, and Titus had to try his best not to cry. His Primarch was wasting away in front of him. His cheeks had sunk almost as if the very flesh from his face was being drained. His eyes were withering away, becoming more and more dried and vacant. He was wrapped in a blanket, sparing Titus of the worst of it. But his arms were still visible, and had seemingly turned to sticks.

“Sire,” Titus said, somehow managing to hold his voice steady. “We are driving a wedge into the Black Legion’s ranks.”

“Good,” Guilliman said. His voice was almost like a croak, as if his vocal cords were decaying and threatening to snap. “Divide and conquer, while we still have the reserves…”

“Sire. Please, let the genetors help you,” Titus begged.

“No,” Guilliman shook his head. “I have been dying for ten thousand years. If my father…mother…if the Emperor said that I even died, then it is all the more assured.”

Guilliman leaned back in his chair, trailing off.

“Sire.”

“Hmm?”

“You were saying if the Emperor could not save you…”

“Yes, if he could not, then it is truly my time.”

“But sire, you were just returned to us.”

“I was put into stasis mere moments from my death,” he chuckled. “There are miracles, and then there are impossibilities. Just as…yes, just as impossible as the Imperium.”

“Sire? What do you mean?”

“My father wanted the impossible,” he said. Titus felt that his gene-sire didn’t hear him. “A Utopia. He created me to build a Utopia. No wonder it failed. We cannot create perfection. No one can.”

“Sire? What do you mean?”

“Death gives surprising clarity,” Guilliman said. “Must mean I am talking riddles to you. The Imperium was a wild fantasy, something that could never be attained. Then again, maybe we did not want it enough, fought hard enough against the encroaching darkness. If things were only done differently…”

Guilliman gestured, and the servo-skull floated towards Titus.

“My last teachings,” he said. “My last lesson. Titus, you must know this. You are the most receptive, the one least stuck in the ways of, of whatever we have become. Please, never lose that. What I wrote, the Codex, it was never to be followed literally. It was guidelines, suggestions, with examples of how each maxim should be delivered. It was never meant to replace thought. Nothing is more powerful than a mind that does not follow mere guidelines. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sire, I understand.”

“You do not.”

“But sire--!”

“No, do not argue,” Guilliman said. “You may not understand, not perfectly, but that is fine. You are better than the rest. You do not understand, but you feel it. You can empathize with it. And that is so much better than the rest.

“Give my lesson to the others. Maybe then they can become what I truly wanted; true warriors, not just unthinking, blind servants. To survive in this world, we must be better than that.”

The skull bobbed in the air, awaiting orders.

“Now finish the damn fight,” Guilliman said.

“Not without you, sire.”

“Nonsense,” Guilliman laughed. “You have already won. Victorious warriors win the battle first, then they go to war. The traitors have not won first; they simply went to war first. They seek to win while in battle. Now show them the error of their ways.”

“Sire?”

Guilliman didn’t respond.

“Sire, please,” Titus pleaded.

“Forgive me,” Legato said, “but he has passed on.”

“I can see.” Titus realized he was crying. He never cried, not since his ascension to the Astartes. He didn’t even know he could cry.

Only the death of his gene-sire could have such an effect on an Astartes.

“Put his body back in stasis,” he said, trying to dry his eyes. He looked at the floating servo skull. “Can you copy what he made?”

“Of course.”

“Then do it. Make dozens of copies of this. Hundreds. This is his last lesson. We must all learn it. I will do what my gene-sire has commanded me, and win the war,” Titus said. “Are there any Imperial Guard forces left?”

“Yes. Since we have met the Legion in battle, the Cadian forces have been regrouping.”

“Excellent. We will need to work with them to put the damn traitors down.”

 

* * *

 

Julas stood awkwardly, and not because of the small room of the Imperial bastion he was in. He had stood on dozens, perhaps hundreds of planets, plenty of times with agents of the Inquisition. But never as an actual agent himself. Never to root out the evils that threatened the Imperium. And certainly not to test the ‘purity’ of Imperial troopers.

“By the Throne, it is something I would never forget,” the guardsman said in awed tones. “The Emperor was perfect. Just, perfect. Like I was staring into the sun; I had to look away.”

Julas grunted, taking notes on a small data-slate. It was human sized, making him scribble like a child.

“Was there anything the Emperor said that struck you as odd?”

“Other than I was meeting the damned Emperor, risen from the Throne?” The guardsman laughed. His laughter seemed to die in his throat. “Yes, yes there was. She was always talking. Never stopped. Throne, if she wasn’t talking, someone had better be. She ordered Serge to chatter away. Didn’t matter about what, just something, you know?”

“Is that all?” Julas couldn’t do this work. He was an Angel of Death, not an Inquisitor.

‘Was.’ He was a reject, chaff that somehow lasted longer than it should have. He was a walking omen; two men had turned from the Emperor’s grace under his watch. He _was_ an Angel of Death, but now no longer.

It was strange. Suddenly he wished he was back at Dimmimar, teaching with the Sisters of Battle. Teaching Laura.

“We couldn’t kneel,” the guardsman said. “Or pray. Mikel wanted to pray, but the Emperor…he yelled at him, but not really, you know? Made Mikel and all of us piss our pants. Why would she do that?”

“It…it was a test,” Julas said. He was no longer the Emperor’s Chosen. He might as well be a liar for the Inquisition. “To see if you could keep the Emperor in your heart, even as the Emperor told you otherwise. A true test of faith.”

“But why?”

“These are dark times, Guardsman. With the Black Crusade, we must remain ever vigilant. The Emperor simply wanted to see if your faith was as she thought; unshakable.”

The guardsman nodded. Julas didn’t know if he bought the lie, or if he was simply doing what was told of him to avoid reprisal.

“As you were, guardsman. And keep the Emperor in your heart.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you,” he said, making the sign of the aquilla on his chest.

Julas had spent the last three hours interviewing dozens of soldiers whom had worked in the bastion when the Emperor made planet fall. Dozens of men and women, loyal and faithful, had said the same thing: the Emperor’s refusal to accept prayer and faith.

To hear that they were wrong in faith was one thing. To hear it from the Emperor himself was another.

“How does the Inquisition handle such feats?” Julas mumbled to himself. He was already exhausted, and not in the physical sense. Still, that was the last mortal soldier he had to interview. He marked his notes and stood to find Parsef.

The men and women of the guard were glued to their posts. They were too busy to bow, let alone notice his presence. Perhaps they had already grown accustomed to the Custodes who were stationed there earlier.

“Inquisitor,” Julas said. Parsef was standing in the main foyer, Geist at his side.

“Julas,” he said. “How goes your work?”

“It is not one that I was trained to do, but I have done it to the best of my ability,” he said. Julas turned, giving one last look to the bastion. “Do you think the Empress’ plan will work? Do you think ours will?”

Parsef sighed.

“As long as the Emperor suspects nothing, it can’t hurt us,” he said. “But I understand what you mean. We balance on the knife’s edge. Any slight tip…well, I don’t need to say what will happen. Now do you understand what the Inquisition goes through?”

“All too well,” Julas said. His replacement arm ached with phantom pain. He caught himself mentally reciting the litany against pain.

Julas handed his reports over, and Parsef took them.

“Were there any individuals that stood out to you?” Parsef asked.

“None. They were the model of compliant soldiers.”

“Good. It is as the Grandmaster said, we simply need to spin this with minimal interference. With luck, they will remain loyal and faithful.”

“And if they do not?”

“I dare to assume you knew of the plan to restore Armageddon to full productivity after the First War?”

“The War spearheaded by the daemon Primarch Angron? The one that brought you to blow with the Wolves?”

Parsef nodded. Julas suddenly realized what he meant. The men and women of Armageddon had been culled, to stem the spread of Chaos. All on the chance _one_ person turned.

“It is bad that we must stoop to such depths.”

“But worse if we didn’t, wouldn’t you agree?”

Julas was about to respond, but found that he couldn’t. He had faced thousands of foes, possibly tens of thousands. He had killed all who faced him, either in honorable combat, from a distance with bolter, or even though indirect means such as orbital bombardment.

But the thought of sending even _one_ loyal member of the Guard to their death pained him. They were simply following the orders of the Master of Mankind, the very one that dictates the very course of the human race. And they would die simply because they followed the one person they were supposed to follow. They couldn’t even begin to fathom the plan they were a part of.

“Tell me, Parsef, do you ever ask yourself if we are truly on the righteous side of this?” Julas asked. “That we are the ones doing what is necessary, and not simply planning and plotting for the sake of planning and plotting?”

“Every damn day,” the Inquisitor said. “I tell myself that this is what separates me from the blood simple brutes, but I know better.”

“Then do you believe that what we are doing is right?”

“We need to move on,” Parsef said. “We have spent enough time here. The Emperor may have moved on, but we need to limit the spread of the Truth.”

“I—“

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“I do not believe I can do such work,” Julas said. “Place me in combat. Let me face traitors naked with a simple combat knife. Give me a bolter with half a clip and put me on the front lines, but this work I cannot do.”

“It’s too late for that,” Parsef said. Julas could hear the pain in his voice. “I’m sorry. I truly am. We have known each other for decades, and I would count you as one of my true friends. But what you’re asking for…I don’t have the power to grant it. You know that, right?”

“All too well.”

“Then you’ll know that we can only do what we are ordered to. Now, we are needed at the nearest church. The Empress had explicitly avoided it, but we must make sure nothing had happened to it.”

“I understand.”

Parsef put a hand on Julas’ remaining arm.

“You don’t, but that is fine,” he said.

“Do you regret becoming an Inquisitor?”

Parsef barked out a single peel of rough laughter.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before!” He said. “I’ve had a few rejuvenation surgeries, lived longer than most men, but _no one’s_ asked me that before!

“If I could have but one wish, I would go back to when I was a young man, and tell the nice woman in the dark robes ‘thanks, but no thanks.’”

Now it was Julas’ turn to snort.

“The Wolves are rubbing off on me. I remembered that when Laura had said she wished for something, Helfist would say—“

“’If wishes were fishes, we’d never go hungry,’” the two said. “’But we _do_ go hungry, so what does that tell you?’”

Julas never saw Geist squirm at the mention of Laura.  He was too busy realizing how much he missed her, of being her Uncle-Sergeant.

“You’re not the only one,” Parsef said. “Shit, if I ever have the chance to retire, I just might write a book on the wisdom of death worlders. Now there’s something I’d never thought would happen.”

“Being close to death gives you surprising clarity. There are plenty of things that I realized when my duty nearly drew to a close, things I would never have thought of otherwise.”

“Like how much of this shit was a bad idea.”

“I do not know what you speak of.”

“Of course you don’t,” Parsef said. “We need to move. That church must not falter, let alone fall. Faith holds the Imperium together, and destroying it would break humanity.”

“And if it were to falter?” Julas asked. “If the priests were to waver in their faith after meeting the Emperor?”

“Then the Inquisition will have to find men and women who are stronger in their convictions.”

Their moment done, Julas went back to questioning himself, and the wishes of the Empress. It was truly the time’s plague when the mad, heretical, and above all _treasonous_ idea was the one that made the most sense.

 

* * *

 

Lion saw the hard-fought battle lines ahead of him. Pushing at the traitor’s lines were the Repentant, and somehow Luther was at the front. He dodged each blow and parried every hit, but it still was not enough. The traitors kept him at arm’s length, and with Luther stalled, the entire Repentant stalled with him.

They needed something to break the stalemate. And that something was slithering ahead of Lion.

“Sire, is this wise?” Azrael asked, looking at the monstrous form of Fulgrim.

“He is right,” Fulgrim said. “You trust me too much. You should have killed me when you had the chance. That daemon might return at any second.”

“Unless you have noticed, we are taking every precaution.”

Fulgrim looked behind him. Dozens of dreadnaughts escorted them, all heavily armed. Dozens of heavy-weapons toting Devestators were with them, and three squads of Deathwing terminators marched ahead of them, all armed with storm shields and thunder hammers.

“Please, I don’t want to tempt anything,” Fulgrim said. “I have been under the daemon’s control for too long.”

“And you will get the chance to repay it a dozen times over,” Lion said. “Your atonement is out there in the ranks of the traitors. Go get it.”

Fulgrim turned to look at Lion again. If it was a daemon that was in charge of Fulgrim, then Lion deserved to be tricked. Pain filled his eyes, and he saw sincerity in his fallen brother.

“You are too good to me, brother,” Fulgrim said. Then he was off, slithering towards the front. Fulgrim proved his skill and adaptability; he shot through the rubble of the ruined planet with shocking speed. He hit the traitor’s lines, who made the mistake of welcoming him.

“Sire, what are you doing?” A noise marine gasped.

Then Fulgrim went to work.

Lion had seen the purple-clad traitors rejoice in every single punishment they had dished out. They could not be demoralized; it was as if they savored every single stimulation, no matter how debased.

But seeing their own fallen Primarch take arms against them? Even the most fearless of the Emperor’s Children faltered at that. His very presence shattered their will to fight, and his skill with his swords certainly helped. The purple-colored lines sagged, then broke. Luther’s Repentant were only too happy to leap into the open breach and move forward.

“The traitor’s lines are broken!” Azrael said. It was clear he put no faith in the Repentant, or into Fulgrim. “Assault units, aid them! Deathwing, locate pockets in the traitor’s lines and strike them there! All units, attack! Today we drive the traitors from Cadia!”

All around Lion, his sons cheered and charged towards the breach that Fulgrim created. Fulgrim himself was already moving through it; he was the center, the tip of the spear that drove into the heart of the fallen and the damned. His position was moving ever forward, and Lion doubted he would ever stop.

Lion advanced, keeping an eye on the rapidly changing lines, wary of any feigns the traitors might be attempting. He walked slowly, and saw a figure that had fallen to the ground.

It was Luther. The old man was on the ground, bleeding from his side.

“Luther, be still,” Lion said. “Apothecary, to me! We need to return Luther to the fight, he is not done yet.”

“I…I wasn’t hit,” Luther gasped. He coughed up blood and kept a hand at his side.

An apothecary was quickly at his side. The man hesitated, seeing the face of Luther, but seemed to put his revulsion aside.

“I—I wasn’t hit,” Luther said again.

“He’s cherishing his side,” Lion said. “I will open his armor.”

Luther drew his sword and pressed it against the thick plates of armor. It pierced the armor, but he made sure to keep the point extremely shallow; Luther was of more use alive than dead. Lion made a quick slice, then pried the piece of armor up, and pulled it open.

Underneath was Luther’s pale skin. The strange wound he had when Lion first saw him was there, leaking blood like a burst pipe would leak water.

“It was the old wound,” Luther gasped. “The one you gave me when we fought on Caliban. The one that woke me from…from whatever blinded me. It never healed. I never wanted it to heal, and it never did. Please, tell me, did we win?”

“Yes, we won.” Lion took Luther’s hand. “Thanks to you.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“No, you could never be forgiven,” Lion said. “But you have earned your redemption.”

“That,” Luther said, smiling, “that is all that I want.”

“Sire, he is dead,” the apothecary said.

“I can tell,” Lion said. He looked at Luther. His eyes were closed, and a smile was on his face. “Dammit, I still needed you. You still had work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Perturabo scowled. Even with the Black Legion, the damn loyalists kept him and his men off-guard, and were reaping the benefits.

With the strange, surgical strikes of the Ultramarines, the brutal efficiency of the Space Wolves and Raven Guard, and the ferocious push by the Dark Angels, they were being crushed. The only force where they were making any kind of headway was with the Death Guard, but with the death of Mortarion, a true death, they were sure to collapse sooner rather than later.

“The damn loyalists have beaten us,” Abaddon said, watching the battle lines from his side.

“Yes,” Perturabo grudgingly admitted. Even the little voice in the back of his mind knew he was beaten. “They have.”

“S-sire,” a Legionnaire said, nervous to get within striking distance of the two, “the Imperial Guard have re-grouped, and are moving on the Death Guard.”

“Then the guardsmen have finally recovered enough to re-enter the fray,” Perturabo said. “We need to leave, cut our losses.”

“Yes, we have lost much to this damned crusade,” Abaddon spat. “But we still might salvage some of our losses.”

“What is the status of the Titan Legions?”

“Bogged down, sire,” the Legionnaire said. “Loyalist forces are keeping them pinned. They have destroyed many loyal Titans, but they are being outmaneuvered, forced to deal with hit and run strikes.”

“Then we cannot rely on them to support our retreat,” Perturabo said. “We must give a sacrifice to the loyalists. I will have my troops summon daemons to aid our escape while we make to our ships.”

“And we will only loose more in the void,” Abaddon said. “The Imperial Navy has gained a considerable foothold.”

“Gather our troops, and make to the ships,” Perturabo said. The voice whispered at him, and he grabbed his hammer. “I need to vent my frustration to the loyalists. Where was Fulgrim last spotted?”

“Spearheading the Dark Angels’ assault, here.”

“I will push back, break him. If I can finally end that damned dandy, then maybe this would not be such a lost cause after all.”

“And I will gather the remaining berserkers and send them to your position,” Abaddon said. “It might make a difference.”

Purterabo didn’t need to hear any voice to know what the Despoiler was planning.

“You mean it will thin their numbers and put you in a position to control their largest warband. How helpful.”

“Do you need the help or not?” Abaddon demanded.

“I need no help,” Purterabo spat. “But any chance to ruin the loyalists will be welcome.”

“Then get moving, I will send them to your position.”

Perturabo snorted. The damned Despoiler was a slippery bastard. He grew like a weed, with the tenacity of cancer. He could see why the dark gods liked him, and why they wanted him for their own. Even his little voice wanted the Despoiler among his ranks, truly among them, entirely devoted down to his very soul.

“To me,” he yelled at his legion. “We bring ruin to the loyalists! Iron within!”

“Iron without!” The cheer was repeated.

His sons formed rank and marched with him. They were shaken; this Black Crusade had been full of promise. The dark gods dispatched their most chosen Primarchs to ruin the Imperium, yet somehow the loyalists did more than fight back. They weathered the storm and had even managed to revive his damned father.

Perturabo blinked. The dark gods put much into this, yes, but where was Tzeentch? The Changer of Ways was strangely absent, as was his champion, Magnus the Red.

And Logar was missing, as well. Like him, Logar was sworn to Chaos Undivided, but he had not heard _any_ word from him. Logar was quiet and withdrawn, yes, but when a massive incursion was on the horizon, he would often speak, or send swaths of his Dark Apostles to bolster their ranks and moral.

But Logar was unnaturally silent, and he sent no zealots. It was like he had no desire to see this crusade through to completion, or to even see it remotely succeed.

The rubble of Cadia was piled high as Perturabo stormed through it. Despite the failure of yet another crusade, it had laid waste to nearly the entire planet. It would take the loyalists many years to truly rebuild; it lessened the blow of defeat, but only a little.

As he drew closer to loyalist lines, incoming fire raked his armor. It chattered off, harmless in every way.

“Damned blind men,” he spat. “You fight for an ungrateful, uncaring father.”

The loyalists brought around heavy weapons. The rounds were pushed aside by the daemon bound in his soul.

“You are a puppet to a tyrant. Can you not see it?”

Ahead of him, he saw the purple-armored slaves to Slaanesh be pushed aside by the four-armed Fulgrim.

“My blind brother,” he spat. “Why have you returned to the yoke of oppression?”

“You call me a slave?” Fulgrim said. Perturabo paused. It wasn’t the normal voice of Fulgrim, full of hubris and contempt. His brother was different. The voice in his head hissed, telling him Fulgrim was no longer possessed. “You, who have sold your soul to the control of a daemon? Do you know what that thing made me do? Do you?”

“It was enlightenment,” Perturabo snarled. “To see the Imperium for what it really was, what our father made us into.”

“And that justifies selling our very souls to yet another person who would control us?” Fulgrim shouted. He spoke in panic and fear as he slithered towards Perturabo. “You give control to daemons who would enslave us, who tell us what to do, what to think and what to feel?”

Fulgrim’s four arms swung in perfect synchronization. Perturabo deflected some while letting his thick armor absorb the rest.

“Daemons who use us as cannon fodder, as pawns, as little more than cattle? You think that surrendering yourself to them is what is best?”

Fulgrim’s shrill cries cut more than his swords did.

“Shut up, you spineless worm! You fight for an uncaring empire, led by a man who only cares that you do exactly what he says, when he says, how he says it. He uses you as little more than a tool.”

He lashed back, swinging his hammer around. Fulgrim gracefully dodged the slow-moving blow, but Perturabo caught Fulgrim with the pommel.

“Our father works to save humanity from the darkness, and you go and embrace it! Can’t you see what you’ve done?”

“I see what our father truly is: the most powerful butcher in the history of the human race,” Perturabo shouted back. The next blow caught Fuglrim dead-on. Bones cracked and Fulgrim’s snake-like body flew back. He was slow getting to his metaphorical feet. “Only a tyrant can order his sons into a meat grinder. Only a tyrant would not care about the butcher’s bill. Only a tyrant can impose his will on countless trillions, to expect them to do what he wants for no other reason than he wants it done!”

“And what you have done was better?” Fulgrim gasped as he pulled himself upright. “Look at what these daemons made us do. We…I killed Ferrus. It made me kill my own brother!”

“And our father had ordered two of ours to their deaths as well,” Perturabo said, advancing on Fulgrim. “Or do you not remember the two we were sworn to never talk about again? The ones that Russ was sent to put down? The ones that he so joyfully brought the executioner’s axe down upon?”

Fulgrim blocked his next swing, but the force of it sent him flying.

“Our father is a tyrant, and all tyrants suffer the same fate,” he said. “He was wrong: chaos is not slavery, it is freedom. Freedom from his rule.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.”

Perturabo brought his hammer down on Fulgrim, but it was a feign. His hammer hit the ground with the force of a falling star, and Fulgrim shot up, jabbing two swords into his chest. It was able to pierce his armor and twisted flesh, running him through. Perturabo brought his hammer up to drive Fulgrim off, who slithered out of range, leaving two of his swords in his chest.

“Have you heard of the things the daemon made me do?” Fulgrim demanded. “The people I’ve been forced to kill? To mutilate? How is that freedom?”

Perturabo pulled the swords from his body and threw them away. His flesh was already mending.

“He is offering us a chance to defeat the darkness. Is that not a price worth paying?”

“Not with my blood!” Perturabo bellowed. “Not with my sons! But did our caring, loving father give us an option? Did he give Angron any option? No!”

He swung, forcing Fulgrim to slide back. He twisted his hammer to and fro, forcing Fulgrim into a concrete wall.

“Did he care when our blood greased the wheels of his tanks? Did he show the slightest hint of sympathy when my dead sons were used as sandbags to ward against enemy fire? When my sons were denied the decency of a good burial? No!”

With nowhere to go, Fulgrim tried to block the next hit. The force of taking the hit shattered his arms and cracked his chest.

“He threw us back into the fight, back into the grinder! We were used again and again and again, all for what? So that we could be forgotten, and have my father’s virtues extolled to the depths of the black skies? I will tear everything he holds dear down for that betrayal!”

He landed his next hit at Fulgrim’s snake body, shattering the bones. Fulgrim fell to the ground, broken and twisted.

“Chaos gave us the freedom to turn from his poisoned grip,” Perturabo said, standing over his brother. “It freed us from his damned yoke of servitude.”

“If that’s true, then to whom am I speaking to?”

“You are speaking to--!”

Fuglrim’s head burst.

Thunder clapped, and suddenly Perturabo was covered with skull and gore. A piece of skull lodged itself into his eye, and he reflexively wiped it free.

He stared down at Fulgrim. His hammer was fixed in the ground, right at Fulgrim’s neck. His brother’s body twitched as neurons intermittently fired.

“What?”

He didn’t remember raising his hammer. He didn’t remember wishing his brother dead. He wanted to show Fulgrim the error of his ways, of why his father couldn’t be trusted, why their way was the right way, the only way.

Perturabo was only dimly aware of enemy fire that bounced off his armor. Why did he do that? _How_ could he do that?

The little voice deep inside his head said that it wasn’t a problem that he should spend much time thinking about.

Screams filled his ears. Perturabo spun around, and saw a surging mass of Khorne Berserkers and bloodthirsters changing into the fray. The Dark Angels’ lines had formed behind Fulgrim, and were ready for the savage assault.

It was time to go. Perturabo wanted, needed, to find the reason he killed Fulgrim, but that little voice told him there were bigger things to worry about.

Behind the lines of the Dark Angels, he saw Lion. Their eyes locked, and the little voice in him laughed. It made him laugh, too. No matter how much they plotted and planned, Chaos would win in the end.

The world started twisting. They had lost, and with the advance of the Loyalists, their link to the warp was fading. The world faded as he was pulled back into the warp, back to the safety of his own daemon-infested world.

Why would he return here? He wanted to face Lion, to break him down and bring him to their side.

The nagging voice in his head said it wasn’t important.


	37. Crusade’s End

Kemuel stood on the bridge of the Emperor’s ship as it overlooked Cadia.

“Seriously, that was the smoothest warp flight I’ve ever had,” the Emperor said. The Emperor had been talking about their journey through the warp for the better part of the week. “Not a bump, not a hitch, just perfectly smooth. What gives? It was _never_ that smooth when I first jumped through the warp. I remember this one time…”

Just listening to the Emperor prattle on threatened to drive Kemuel insane. Suddenly, he realized why it irked him so. The Emperor was speaking with Laura’s voice. The tone was perfect, but the mannerisms were off, the infliction wrong, and the accent was strange. It was Laura, but Formerly Laura enough to drive him over the edge.

Kemuel made up his mind; he would put his name forward and volunteer for perimeter duty, just to get away from the Empress. Such a position was looked down upon as the least glorious, as it took one away from the Emperor, but Kemuel saw it as a reprieve from the constant reminder that it was not his Laura that he was guarding.

He never thought he’d miss the days of guarding Little Laura, of giving her piggy back rides. She used to love those.

“Sire,” a tech priest said, “Cadia reports that the traitors are being driven off-world.”

“Awesome,” Formerly Laura said, suddenly abandoning whatever story she was in the middle of idly talking about. “How are we looking?”

“Our forces report that they are exhausted, but they are moving to finish the fight. The navy, while mangled, is pressing any advantage they can get in the skies.”

“Great. Just need a little more of a push, and this’ll all be a distant memory.”

“Sire, do you think we should bolster our allies?” Kemuel asked.

“What for?” Formerly Laura asked.

“They have been fighting, non-stop, for weeks on-end,” Kemuel said. “And fighting against fallen Primarchs. You have heard that they are exhausted; any boost to moral would be a great boon. I humbly suggest that you assign a few Custodes to the front. Knowing that the Emperor’s guardians are at hand will let them know the Master of Mankind is watching over this battle, and they will fight harder to restore your will to the system.”

“Man, you’re one eloquent bodyguard,” the Empress said. “You probably just want to stretch your legs, is that it?”

Kemuel could feel the eyes of his Custode brothers upon him. Being assigned to leave the Emperor’s side was a necessary burden, but to want to willingly leave was tantamount to treason.

“I simply wish to help end this damned Crusade,” he said.

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” Formerly Laura laughed. “Well, you volunteered. Find any other Custode who wants to ‘stretch their legs’ and get out there.”

“My thanks for humoring such a selfish request,” Kemuel said, bowing.

“If anyone else wants to be ‘selfish’ and kill some traitors, be my guest,” the Emperor said.

“Sire, we are detecting warp breaches,” a tech priest said. “It is the Sisters of Battle.”

“How many of ‘em?”

“…It appears to be all of them, lord.”

The holo-tank screen shifted from displaying Cadia to the approaching fleet. Dozens of ships hung in the air, data-readings of each ship floating next to the vessel in question. All of them bore the Sisters of Battle Fleur-de-Lis.

“We are being hailed.”

“On screen.”

The holographic readings of the Sisters of Battle fleet disappeared. Taking their place were several women, all of them armed and armored. Only two remained in robes, and Kemuel knew them well. They were the Prioresses, both of the Convent Sanctorum and Prioris.

That meant that the several armored women were the Canoness Superiors of all six orders. The entire seniority of the Sisters of Battle was on one ship.

“Ladies,” the Empress grinned. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

_We have received…troubling reports,_ the Prioress Terra said. _We want to verify them for ourselves._

“Well, verify away.”

_Forgive us, but we need to verify them in person._

Kemuel didn’t like how reserved the Sisters were. They were known for being taciturn, but not like this. He scanned their faces; many were struggling with something, but he didn’t know what.

“Very interesting,” Formerly Laura said. “Alright, I’ll bite. Need me to visit your ship?”

_If it would not cause much trouble,_ the Prioress said.

“Quite the contrary, got a few Custodes who need to stretch their legs,” the Emperor said. “Yo, Kemuel, you and your brothers are up. Sisters, I’ll see you on your ship. We’ll be jumping over.”

The vid ended, reverting back to the hologram of Cadian space.

“Prep the teleporters, we’re gonna pop on over,” the Empress said. “Kemuel, you got a few brothers in mind?”

“I do, sire,” he said. He nodded to his brothers, those he knew wouldn’t mind parting from the Emperor’s side. They had accompanied him to Dimmimar, they wouldn’t mind visiting the Sisters of Battle and going to the surface of Cadia.

“Awesome. Come on, daylight’s burning.”

The Empress prattled as they took the service lift to the teleporter room. Kemuel slid his helmet on and dampened the audio to near-mute levels, turning the mad blabbering Master of Mankind to a simple dull background noise. What was the Imperium coming to?

They strolled to the teleporter chamber, where a waiting team of tech priests had everything prepped.

“Landing coordinates are received, we read the Sisters of Battle’s locator beacon loud and clear,” the tech priest said. “We are awaiting your orders.”

“Then let’s jump,” the Emperor said.

The air split, and Kemuel was falling through a tiny fraction of the twisted warp. He had only teleported a few times many, many millennia ago, but the memory stuck with him. Back then, it was twisted and howling raw emotions and eldritch power. He had seen what appeared to be faces, but just looking at them made them vanish. For months, they only returned to him when he closed his eyes.

But this time, their quick trip through the warp was uneventful. Peaceful, even. There was still the overwhelming feeling of emotion and power, but he saw no faces, heard no voices, felt nothing pull at him. Was it because he was next to the Emperor? No, he had teleported with the Emperor before, prior to his internment to the Throne, and it had been worse.

One moment he was nowhere, the next, he was somewhere. Thunder roared as the air in the Sisters of Battle’s ship had to move for them. Displaced, it caused robes to rustle and burning torches flicker.

They had landed in a docking bay, and it was filled with Sisters of Battle. Rank after rank of Sisters stood at the ready, each from a different Order, lined up almost as if on parade ground. Before them were the two Prioresses and the six Canoness Superiors. Standing behind the Superiors were the Canoness-Preceptors; he even saw Lynia standing with the leaders of the Valorous Heart. He wanted to nod to her, but his training and conditioning prevented him.

All was quiet for but a few seconds after their arrival, but seeing the Master of Mankind moved the Sisters. Nearly all of them fell to their knees, making Kemuel’s heart skip a beat.

_Alright, I’m gonna say this once: DON’T KNEEL,_ the Empress bellowed with her psykic might. The Sisters recoiled, but a few stood rooted to their spot, Lynia included. Slowly, they pulled themselves from their knees, with many Sisters helping others. Kemuel gazed out to the assembled mass of the Sisters. Many were silently crying, but from what? He hoped that it was just from seeing the Empress, and not what they might have learned.

Looking at the Prioresses, he wondered how they handled learning the Truth, both the Imperial variety as well as the origin of the Lectitio Divinitatus. That had to be what they were here for; what else could it be?

“So, ladies, what needs to be verified?” the Emperor said with a smile.

“We...we wish to know the truth about the Lectitio Divinitatus,” Lynia said, speaking with fear and urgency. “We had heard what you said to the Prioress, but…but we have to hear it for ourselves.”

Kemuel’s hearts caught in his throat. If the entire convent of the Sisters knew, what would they do? They were fanatically loyal to the Ecclisarchy, and with them the High Lords of Terra. By wishing to reform the Imperium, Formerly Laura had done an excellent job of aggravating both parties.

“It’s just as I said—“

“Is it true?” The Prioress said, cutting the Emperor off.

The Empress gazed at her. The woman stood her ground, but only just. She shook like a leaf in the wind, but she refused to yield.

“I like you,” the Empress smiled. “Got some guts there. It’s been way too damn long since someone cut me off.”

“Is. It. True?” The woman gasped.

“Completely true.”

Many of the Sisters reacted. Kemuel couldn’t make out what was said, only that many voices suddenly cried out and chatter broke.

“T-then the Lectitio,” Lynia stammered, “is a lie?”

“Front to back.”

Kemuel was expecting a revolt among the Sisters. The Lectitio was their raison d'etre, and to have it so brutally taken away from them, he was counting on the Sisters attempting to kill them for being heretics.

But the Prioresses and Canonesses remained stoic and unmoving, and the Sisters themselves never went for their weapons.

“V-very well,” the Prioress said, the color drained from her face. It was the only emotion that betrayed her serious expression. “Then…then we know what we must do. What is your will, Master of Mankind?”

“Well, we still got a bit of a fight left,” the Emperor said, “and the Space Marines could use some help.”

“They shall have it, in your—by your will.”

Kemuel caught the near-prayer, but Formerly Laura either didn’t hear it or didn’t care.

“Awesome. I got some Custodes that want in on this as well. They’ll be going with you. Have fun, kids! Biggie out!”

The air split as the Emperor activated his teleportation grid and vanished from the ship. Kemuel stood with his brothers, looking at the Sisters. He pulled his helmet off and gave a curt nod to Lynia.

“There was a time where the Custodes were sent on missions on behalf of the Emperor,” he said. “Where we walk, all knew that the Emperor’s hand was guiding us. In strategy,” he hastily added for the sake of the Sisters and their destroyed faith. “Let us assist, and know that you walk with the Emperor.”

“Thank you for the kind words, Custodes,” the second Prioress said. “They are…comforting during these trying times.”

“What are your orders?”

“There are heretics that are crying out for their death. We are going to help them,” Lynia said. “Are you with us?”

“Until the stars go out,” Kemuel said.

“Then let’s get to work.”

 

* * *

 

Icons blinked into existence on the holo-tank. Titus blinked; unless he was reading it wrong, an entire armada just warped into the system. Rubbing the weariness from his eyes, he scanned the readouts.

“Sisters of Battle?” He mumbled. He realized he hadn’t slept a wink in just over a week. His gene-enhanced body was designed to all but do away with sleep, but the deep, reptilian part of his brain still ached to rest. Some things could simply not be changed.

But Sisters were good; _any_ ally was good. Leading the Astartes forces, he was out-maneuvering the traitor Legions, but after a week of pure fighting, their ability to rapidly change tactics and adjust positions was greatly limited. Having allies in the skies meant having drop pods and assault ships, fresh troops to take the strain off their own weary forces. That meant their maneuverability was effectively restored.

Yet another knife to drive the traitor’s back.

“Open a vox channel with the flagship,” he ordered. The air crackled, and a holographic screen winked into existence. The face of a grizzled Sister looked back at him. Three long scars stretched across the side of her face, tearing her ear up; she had nearly lost her head at some point in the past.

“This is Captain Titus of the Ultramarines Second Company, to whom am I speaking with?”

_I am Canoness-Preceptor Lynia, of the Order of the Valorous Heart,_ the Sister said. Titus idly wondered what vicious battle she earned those scars from. _We have all six of the Militant Orders in our battle-group. We heard that Primarch Roboute Guilliman is planning the defense of the Cadian system. May I have the honor of speaking to him?_

“I do not mean to deny you the honor, sister, but Guilliman is currently…unavailable,” Titus stammered. “I rule in his stead.”

_I see. Leading a massive force must be a very pressing task._

“Thank you for being sympathetic, sister. If you have all six of the Militant Orders in your fleet, surely the Prioresses will be available.”

_Much like Lord Guilliman, they are currently indisposed,_ Lynia said. If Titus was any less tired, he might have missed the stammer in her voice. _We both rule in their stead._

But he was tired, and he missed the stammer. Even with his exhaustion, Titus couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Then we, the unworthy, are stuck with leading the charge.”

_Quite funny how power flows,_ Lynia smiled. _Now, where are we needed?_

“What is the capacity of your aerial power, sister?”

_We have dozens of fliers on hand, many ‘loaned’ from the Inquisition. We also have drop pods._

“How many?”

_In the hundreds. My sisters are ready to jump into Hel itself; say the word and our pods will blot out the sun._

 “Then you will have the most difficult task I have,” Titus said. “You will need to be patient.”

_If Lord Guilliman and the Emperor demands that we wait, then we shall wait. But surely our forces on the ground need reprieve._

“They do, but the Traitor Legions are stubborn. They yield ground, but if we do not press them the right way, we end up giving them room to breathe. That cannot happen. We must hound them, without breaking our lines or separating our troops. We must wait until they have dedicated their attack, then disrupt them. With nearly all of our forces deployed to the ground, we are limited to what we can do.”

_Is this where we come in?_ Lynia smiled. _Disrupt lines, cut supplies, and be the knife in the back to end the traitors?_

“I am glad to see that our Sisters are perceptive.”

_Let’s just say that I’ve learned from the best,_ Lynia said. _So, we are a combination of relief- and harassment- force, is that it?_

“For the ground, yes. For the void war, we will need your ships to harry the Traitors. They seek to run back to the Eye of Terror; we cannot let them escape unscathed.”

_I understand. I will work with my superiors to transfer personnel from ship to ship, so we can dedicate entire fleets to troop deployment and void war._

“My thanks, sister. When will you be able to dedicate ships to void war?”

_I will have ships ready within the close of the hour._

“Excellent. As for the ground forces, I am sending you coordinates; ready your chosen sisters, for they jump into the fire.”

_Fire is what we like, Captain,_ Lynia smiled. _We will be ready for you._

The Canoness-Preceptor closed the channel, returning the holotable to its focus of Cadia. Titus looked at the spread of the traitor’s line. They were slowly moving, retreating to their rough landing zones. They had already won, but they couldn’t risk turning their victory into a Pyrrhic one.

Titus looked behind him. The genetors had placed Guilliman back into stasis, his corpse perfectly preserved. It pained him to see his Primarch so withered and wasted, but Titus saw the smile in Guilliman’s lips, defiant in death.

He had wanted his sons to learn. Titus pledged himself to be an eternal student.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, greybeard.”

“What is it, Helfist?”

“Is it just me, or is this a really fucking long knock-down, drag out fight?”

Aevar ducked behind a wall and took a second to wipe some splattered blood from his eyes. The lines of the traitors were stubbornly refusing to bend. They did a good job holding them at arm’s length; they were building up a sizable no-man’s land.

“Yea, they’re just a little bit stubborn,” he said.

“Good. Thought it was just me,” the Rune Priest said.

Many of the berserkers had been slaughtered, but more than enough had made it back behind the lines of the Black Legion and Iron Warriors. The traitors had enough ammo to throw up a wall of steel to keep them at bay.

He ran a finger over his armor. It had deflected more than its fair share of death blows; it would need a lot of tender, loving care in his forge to return to its full glory.

“Yea, but still, it’s damn good to be doing something worthwhile.”

“Got a point there,” the redhead grinned. He leaned from cover to take an easy shot at the traitors. “This beats any day in exile.”

“Fucking Hel, still surprised you’re still sucking air,” a massive voice roared.

Even in the cacophony of battle, Aevar could hear the voice boom. Strolling through the rubble with hardly a care in the world was Bjorn Stormwolf, his Terminator armor dented and washed out.

“My Jarl,” Aevar called. “I’m glad to see they didn’t send you into the sun while I was gone. How are you, Little Bjorn?”

The Stormwolf glared at Aevar, but that only made Aevar grinned all the wider.

“Twenty years gone, and _that’s_ the first fucking thing you say?” He demanded.

“I am to please, my Jarl.”

“The fucking Inquisition couldn’t have killed you and made everyone’s lives easier,” Bjorn grumbled. “Well, maybe the traitors are up to the task. Russ is getting ready to lead a charge.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Helfist asked.

“The Sisters, that’s who.”

“The Sisters of Battle are back?” Aevar asked.

“Why so surprised, Blasphemer?”

Aevar bit his tongue. He could still see the shock in the Prioress’ eyes as the Empress told them that the entire Imperial Cult is a lie.

“Didn’t think they’d stick their necks out for us, that’s all,” he mumbled. He actually thought they’d turn traitor, or at the least revolt against the Emperor for destroying their faith.

“You’d think they’d sit the Black Crusade out?”

“No, just didn’t think they’d go around helping us. If Russ is leading the charge, why wait for the Sisters?”

“To maximize the rout, that’s what. The traitors are trying to leave, and we’re gonna stop them. And with the Ultra-Smurfs doing the planning, they know where to point them. All we have to do is wait for the sign.”

“What, you mean that sign?” Vermund asked, pointing to the sky. Drop pods streaked from the heavens. In the days of battle, Aevar realized how little aerial movement there was.

“Aye, that’s it,” the Stormwolf growled. “Gets ya hard just lookin’ at it, eh?”

“None harder,” Aevar laughed, although in the back of his mind he couldn’t help but think of Lynia.

The ground shook as the Sister’s drop pods crashed into traitor ground. Aevar heard a mighty howl from down the line. It stirred his very blood. He stood from the cover he was in and saw Leman Russ himself raising his sword.

“For the Wolftime!” The King of Fenris bellowed.

Across the massive line of battle, all of his sons roared and charged. Wulfen sprung through the rubble of the no-man’s land, the few remaining Blood Claws hot on their heels. Teams of Thunderwolf Calvary up and down the line tore through the rubble, braving the traitor’s fire.

“Through the gates of Hel!” Bjorn Stormwolf bellowed, the first over the top of the wall. Aevar was a few steps behind him.

The traitors fired wildly, but many weren’t shooting at the Vlka; they seemed to be turning around. It was the Sisters.

Aevar scowled. That meant that the Sisters were taking the shots themselves. He snorted. He spent too much time with the Sisters; he was too fond of them. Maybe the old bat herself would come down to get in on the murder-make.

Many Vlka fell, but they were able to cross no-man’s land.

“The wolves are among you!” Helfist howled, surrounded by the glow of the heroes. He smashed the traitors like it was nothing. Katla sung like thunder, and Bjorn Stormwolf carved into an Iron Warrior.

Aevar pushed onwards, trying to get to the besieged Sisters. Too many have died, and he wouldn’t have more.

The traitors reacted just as Space Marines should. The front lines drew their weapons and stared down the Rout of Fenris with grim determination.

“Death to the False Emperor!” They roared. Aevar had to admit, they had good spirit.

After butchering one man, his momentum carried him forward to the next heretic. He parried a blow and struck back, but the heretic was able to fade away at the last second. Aeavr readied himself for the counter-attack, but the heretic broke off with his unit. He blinked; since when did the heretics engage in hit-and-run tactics?

Bolt shots snapped him back to reality. The Sisters were close, and they would need all the help they could get, even if it was just another body to take a bolt.

“Helfist, let’s pull our Sisters out of the fire.”

Together, they cautiously pressed forwards. The heretics were unengaged now, but keeping fire on the advancing lines of the Vlka while they fell back. Grey Hunters were raked with fire, but stayed upright once Helfist cast the hero’s blessing of endurance upon them.

Strangely, the heretics didn’t press their advantage. They were more invested in retreating.

“Looks like they want to die another day,” Aevar said, pulling Iounn from her holster to take a few shots at the retreating line.

“Pretty damn sure our sisters have something to say about that,” Helfist said. “Ha! Look who it is!”

They reached the embattles Sisters’ drop pods. They each landed within a few dozen meters of each other; truly great grouping. The Sisters had only been on the ground for a short few minutes, but the heretics gave them a hell of a welcoming party. A few lay dead, but many more were uninjured. And standing among them were Custodes.

“Been hanging around bodyguards too long,” Aevar said. “I recognize that fighting style. That’s Kemuel there.”

“Heard you need help,” Helfist said.

“We heard that _you_ needed _our_ help.” Aevar couldn’t help but laugh as he saw Lynia pull her helmet off.

“Damn, the universe got smaller!” He roared. “Lynia! Glad to see you here!”

He took two steps forward. Then the Canoness hauled off and hit him square in the jaw. A few Blood Claws saw it and howled at him.

“Missed you too,” he said, rubbing his jaw.

“That is for Laura,” Lynia snarled.

“I deserved that, didn’t I?”

He let the next punch land home.

“That is for the Emperor.”

“Little confused about the second one.”

“You know damn well what I mean,” she spat. “Because of you, we lost our greatest strength.”

Aevar’s shoulders slumped.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Lynia spat. “And you will have Hel to pay for it. But that will be later. We still have heretics to push off this planet.”

“Care if I join you?”

“The more the merrier. _Blasphemer_.”

“If it makes you feel better, I smell the malifactorum; probably means they’re summoning daemons. You like killing those, right?”

 

* * *

 

Abaddon glared at the approaching lines of the loyalists. From his vantage point at the top of the small hill, he could see the monstrous forms of Leman Russ and Corax plowing through the lines of the sacrificed, the soon-to-be-slaughtered. He was relying on the daemons to hold for a little longer, but against the fury of two savage Primarchs, the armor of the Imperial Guard and the fury of the Sisters of Battle, he doubted they would last much longer.

It would take decades to rebuild his forces. But at least there would be a next time. The Corpse Emperor may be on his feet again, but the Imperium was still doomed.

“It may not come today, but you will breathe your last,” he said to the ruined world.

He turned, boarding one of the last remaining ships. Planet Killer was still in orbit, and was holding the newly arrived Sisters at bay, at least for the time. Even though it was still wounded from the siege of Dimmimar, it was a mighty vessel; it would hold for now.

The ship rose into the air, and Abaddon was already planning his next assault on the Corpse Empire.

 

* * *

 

Laura took a deep breath. She needed to concentrate, to try and force something through the thick quasi-warp. One of her earliest memories of her uncles rang in her head.

_Watch the enemy, know the enemy, hate the enemy._

If she wanted to get out of this Hel, she would need to find out what kind of Hel this was. Many of the memory-scenes she had seen gave her an idea of what this was, but she would need more.

She didn’t know what each scene meant, but if she could find out what it all meant, then maybe she could do something about it.

She was able to sort-of move around by following emotions, but she needed a better way to travel. So if emotions were too general, maybe thoughts would be better.

“Trickery,” she said, the idea popping into her head. The whole damn world is some kind of trick. If she could find the source of the trick, she might be able to break out of it.

She pressed her hands to her ears to get some kind of reprieve from the voices, then concentrated on the feeling of pulling a prank, or being the victim of a prank.

The fog-world around her spun, changing from the viewpoint of a ship bridge to what seemed to be a massive war room.

Wisp-thin fog seemed to form some kind of floating hologram, and fog-people surrounded the table. There was one massive fog-person. And standing at the head of the table was the solid man.

Laura gasped. She had seen that face before. It was all over Dimmimar. Painted on walls, built into stained glass, chiseled into stone: it was the Emperor.

“…Cut off our forces,” the fog-person said.

NO SHIT, a dozen voices rang out. They came from thin air, the same voices that were driving her insane.

Laura concentrated, trying to dispel the worst of the voices.

But if they came from nowhere, were they some kind of inner voice? Was she listening to the Emperor’s inner thoughts?

“Battle reports keep rolling in,” the massive man said. Could that be a Primarch? He was too large to be anything other than a Primarch. “All losses. This atrocity at Istvaan V is breaking us. And the Eastern Fringe is still racked with warp storms. We are cut off and cut apart.”

The voices, the strange thoughts of the Emperor, broke through her barrier of concentration.

Damn. That was well played. You win this round, Tzeentch.

A dozen voices echoed the same thought, many less politely than others. Laura could taste the raw emotion of defeat, and of being tricked.

She didn’t go back far enough. But she still might be able to learn something from this memory.

‘Learn.’ Laura chuckled at that. Her Aunt Lynia had long ago taught her to guard her open mind, for reason begets doubt, and doubt begets heresy.

Her thoughts drifted back to Dylena, her one true friend. She was a mutant, a half-Eldar, but Laura couldn’t help but miss her.

Thinking of Dylena, her concentration broke, the deluge of inner voices fell on her. She clapped her hands over her ears, trying to re-orient herself. But the voices she kept at bay were easily in the thousands. She was drowned out, washed away. The scene folded, turning into something else. She screamed, but could only taste the strange quasi-warp that made this damned place. And the voices seemed to multiply.

 

* * *

 

The Thunderbird swooped low, depositing the Lamenters and Croan to the surface of Cadia.

“I have heard there is not much war left here,” Croan said. 

“It matters not, the Emperor—Empress, gave us our orders,” Sergeant Invillus said. “We are to secure the planet, make sure it is safely within Imperial hands.”

“Quite a turn of fate, is it not?” Croan said as he stepped over the rubble. “You have become one of the Emperor’s right hands, trusted with personal orders. And we put so much work into your gear.”

“You shall have our eternal gratitude,” Invillus said. “But personally, I welcome such assignments. Bad things seem to happen to us, and sudden, unexplained armor failures happen with frightening regularity. I am grateful for the armor, but equally grateful to _not_ put it to the test.”

“Aevar is right; you are all a bunch of coy maidens,” Croan laughed. He looked up and saw an approaching group of Salamanders. “Well met, brothers.”

“It is the Dragonsword,” one said.

“We have heard that Vulkan and the Great Khan have clashed here.”

“Yes, but we are too late.”

“I have to ask,” Invillus said, “when we hear those words, we get a sinking feeling in our stomachs. Is that just some quirk of the gene-seed, or are other Astartes vulnerable to such a feeling?”

“It is not just you; I suddenly feel terrible.”

“For once, I am glad it is not just us Lamenters.”

The Salamanders gestured them forwards. The Lamenters cautiously advanced, sweeping the ruined street with their bolters, wary of anything. Even with their usual slow pace, Croan and his Salamander brothers outstripped the Lamenters.

He climbed a hill of rubble, and was brought to his knees.

“No,” he gasped. “It cannot be.”

“It is,” his fellow Salamander said. Pain and sorrow were in his voice. “We wish it was not, but it is.”

_If wishes were fishes, we’d never go hungry,_ Helfist had said.

The White Scars had gathered. They were standing in what must have been a former parade ground, for the area was surprisingly open, rubble excluded. Nearly all were on their knees. The Salamanders were there, too, and either stood or had taken a knee in solidarity.

In the center of the gathering was Vulkan. He held the lifeless body of Jaghatai Khan in his arms, and was crying, screaming to the skies.

The Scars were mourning the loss of their Primarch. Many were crying uncontrollably, more were prostrating themselves before the body of their dead Primarch.

_But we_ do _go hungry, so what does that tell you?_

Suddenly, all of their work of weathering the Siege of Dimmimar, and their victory over the Black Legion on Cadia, it all seemed like a horrible waste.

Croan didn’t know how long he stayed there, unable to look away from the dead Primarch. It seemed like forever. But eventually, Vulkan set his brother’s body down, and he stood up.

“Vulkan, please,”

“What are we to do?”

“He deserves a proper Nocturne funeral.”

But the massive Primarch pushed passed his sons. His ebony skin shone wet with tears, and gave away little other emotion. He raised his hand, and his hammer flew to it. Croan saw where the hammer was pulled from; for the first time, he noticed the dead, mutilated body of Mortarion. Just the sight of the dead Khan seemed to dull the terrible smell from the daemon Primarch’s body.

“Please, forgefather,” his brothers begged.

Vulkan ignored them. He activated something in his hammer, the air split and lighting blinded them. Croan recognized it as a teleporter. When his vision returned, Vulkan was gone.

 

* * *

 

The hanger the Ultramarine’s ship was filled to the brim.

Ultramarines and White Scars stood, some in order but more in barely organized mobs. Even the Ultramarines’ ranks were in disarray, but Aevar couldn’t blame them.

Sitting at the edge of the hanger, mere feet from the void shields that kept the atmosphere in, was the dead body of Roboute Guilliman. He was still in his chair, back in a stasis field. He was a shell of his former self; his once healthy glow had turned into a sick pallor, his emaciated skin was pulled taunt against his bones, and his eyes seem sunken. But he died with a smile on his face, so he must have done something right.

Next to Guilliman was the sarcophagus of Jaghatai Khan. Aevar had seen the dead Primarch only in passing; none wanted the Blasphemer to be near such a revered figure. But he could see the dead Khan’s jetbike parked next to his sarcophagus. It was battered and ruined, but even in death it still seemed a mighty war machine.

Aevar was pushed far off to the side of the hanger, but could still see the Emperor. For the third time that Aevar had seen her, the Emperor was quiet as she gazed at her dead sons. The Lion, Corax and Russ himself stood by him, each silent. Corax was stoic in his silence, but Russ and Lion were openly crying.

“Dammit, Jaghatai, you dumb bastard,” Russ cried. He was flanked by five Sisters of Silence. One of them offered him a reassuring hand. “You were the only other death worlder among us. Why’d you have to go and get your thread cut?”

“What happened to Roboute?” The Emperor asked, finally breaking her silence.

A team of tech priests moved forward, pushing a distraught Legato forward.

“We don’t know, sire,” Legato said lamely. “His Larraman’s Organ suddenly decomposed. It couldn’t have been necrosis related; the wound was properly cleaned, the disease eradicated, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it was,” the Emperor mumbled. “But at the same time, it wasn’t. That blade still managed to kill him.” The Emperor paused. “And where’s Vulkan?”

“We do not know, father,” Lion said, drying his eyes. “The Salamanders reported that he had vanished, teleporting away from the planet. We do not have any means of tracking him; he is gone.”

“Vulkan did seem…off,” Corax said. “Flighty, nervous in crowds.”

“Jaghatai said that he wasn’t the same since fucking Konrad had his way with him,” Leman spat. “Said the fucking Night Haunter ‘put his Perpetual-ness’ to the test. Probably tortured him so bad he couldn’t see straight.”

“No one can be tortured and remain completely sane, especially at Konrad’s hands. And so another son leaves,” the Empress said sadly. “Well, let’s get them loaded off to their Chapters. Give them the burial they deserve.”

Servitors moved by Aevar, taking the coffins to be loaded into the appropriate ship.

“And the Black Legion still managed to get away,” she sighed.

“Aye, by the skin of their damned teeth,” Leman spat. “I’ll hunt ‘em down. Still owe them one for pulling the wool over our eyes at the Alaxxes Nebula. Still fucking sore about that. Fucking Alpha Legion.”

“I take it that there’s nothing I can do to keep you here?” the Emperor asked.

“Damned right there’s nothing you can do. My wyrd is my own, and I still have a score to settle.”

“Well, once you’re done, you know where you can come back to.”

“Brother, do you have room for one more?” Corax asked.

“Come on, Corax, you too?” The Empress groaned.

“Like Russ, I have my own score to settle with the traitors,” he said. “Istvaan still has to be repaid.”

“Guess it can’t be helped then,” the Empress sighed. “Besides, as long as there are traitors are out there, there’s still a threat against the Imperium. Chase ‘em to hell, and put ‘em in the ground.”

“Gladly,” Corax smiled.

“I’ll need to get ready,” Leman said. “Corax, we ride in the morrow. Get your shit packed up and take who you want to take.”

“I shall await you at the threshold to the Eye,” he said.

Aevar bowed as his Primarch and the Sisters approached him.

“You’re one of mine,” Leman said to him. “I’d like to take you; Iron Priests are always in short supply in the warp.”

Aevar’s hearts skipped a few beats. Him? Fighting with Russ himself?

“A-as you order,” he said. Russ wanted him? Him, the Blasphemer, to accompany his Primarch, to walk among the legends? He could leave everything, even his damned name. But he would be leaving Laura.

“Leman,” the Emperor yelled in a sing-song voice. “Remember our agreement…”

“Dammit all, fine,” Russ groaned. “Had to give it a try. My ‘mother’ has plans for you. So do you best.”

Russ himself could smell the disappointment roll off him.

“’Do my best?’ When would one of your sons not?” Aevar said. Somehow, he was able to spit it out.

“Ha! Got that right. Come on, let’s leave the Ultramarines and White Scars to their mourning.”

 

* * *

 

Julas never grew accustomed to standing in front of the Grandmaster. Part of him knew he would never be used to it.

“The Emperor has been trying to eradicate the Imperial Cult,” Parsef said, “but has been doing so half-heartedly. We imagine it is because of the Black Crusade.”

“And now that the Crusade is all but over, then the Emperor will step up his plan of destroying the Ecclisarchy,” the nameless, blond-haired Grandmaster sighed.

“Bad that we go against the Emperor, worse that the Cult fails,” Parsef said, a bitter smile on his lips.

“That’s the nature of the job, Inquisitor.”

“I can still bitch about it.”

“What are our orders?” Julas asked.

“I have been in touch with the High Lords of Terra,” the Grandmaster said. “We have a plan.”

“What have the High Lords come up with?”

“There is a very, _very_ old saying, sergeant,” the Grandmaster said. “’Small leaks sink great ships.’ We can’t have this metaphorical ship sink, so we must minimize leaks.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means the Grandmaster can’t tell us what the plan is,” Parsef said.

“Exactly. I hope you can understand.”

Julas frowned. Damned Inquisition and their damned secrecy.

“I understand that it will be…difficult to adjust to this new job,” the Grandmaster said to him. “I _am_ sorry to have such a devoted soldier drawn into our game of shadows. But we must do the unthinkable, so that the Imperium can survive.”

“Then what are our orders?”

“You have easy access to the Emperor, don’t you?”

“As ‘easy’ as any other.”

“Nonsense, you have free reign to enter the Throne Room,” the Grandmaster said. “We need you there, to gather intelligence.”

“You mean what the Emperor’s plan is now that the Crusade is over.”

“That I do,” he said. “It will be a difficult assignment, but you must remain there.”

“Then we will be the small leak that sinks the Emperor’s new ‘ship,’” Julas said. He couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice. It was good that he was no longer an Ultramarine; such an action would result in his name stricken from all records. In the eyes of his former Chapter, he would never have even been born. Just like Onairam.

“Come now, sergeant, we know the Cult _must_ survive by any means necessary,” the Grandmaster smiled gently, as if he was chiding a child on his outburst. “You’re valuable, and we can use that value next to the Emperor.”

“Very well,” he sighed. “We shall accompany the Emperor back to Terra.”

“That’s the spirit,” the Grandmaster said, brushing his blonde hair back. “Once you break through the warp, we will need you to trigger a signal. Just so we know that you are in position. It might be quite some time until you are called again. In the meantime, Parsef, do you have your full report on the Blasphemer’s exile?”

“I do, Grandmaster,” Parsef said. He slid a very full folder to him.

“Thank you.”

“Also, I have an asset,” Parsef said. “May I keep her?”

“Of course. We have plenty of assets, and this is the highest priority.”

“My thanks,” Parsef said, bowing. Julas felt that the Grandmaster expected him to bow. He didn’t give the man the satisfaction. He turned to leave the room.

How did he ever get caught up in this? The Inquisition did good work, yes, but they could not be trusted.

 

* * *

 

Titus stood before Marneus Calgar, surrounded by the hateful eyes of the other Captains.

“You have allowed our Primarch to die,” Calgar said.

“Begging your pardon, lord, but Guilliman chose his fate for himself,” Titus said.

“Enough! I have seen his last recording, his last wishes.” Calgar shook his head. “He wants us to throw away the rules that have governed us for millennia.”

“He wants us to think for ourselves,” Titus said, gentry correcting the Chapter Master.

“I said _enough,_ ” Calgar spat. Titus was blessed with enough sense to remain quiet.

Calgar looked around at the gathered Captains. There were a few vacancies as the result of the Black Crusades, but each surviving one stared at Titus with various levels of hate and contempt.

“You have done a great service, helping to drive the Black Legion off,” Calgar said. “But that does not absolve you of your failings. First you flout all the rules the Codex Astartes puts forward. Then you risk bringing the taint of the warp back to Macragge. And now, Guilliman dies under your watch. Return to your ship, Captain, and think of your future.”

Titus bowed, and left the enclave of Captains. Calgar studied his soldiers, the men sworn to his command.

“We have all seen the video that purports to be Guilliman’s last words,” he said. “What are your thoughts?”

“It cannot be Guilliman,” many yelled. “At the very least, he cannot be in his right mind. To forsake the Codex Astartes in such a flagrant manner? It is unlike him.”

“I feel that many of us feel the same way,” Calgar said. “Is that true?”

“It has to be some sick ploy by Titus.”

“It must be. He is a latent traitor; leaving him in care of Guilliman was a mistake, one that Guilliman himself did not see. We have failed our father, but we may _not_ fail the Imperium.”

Calgar motioned, and a man entered the room. He was tall for a mortal man with blonde hair, and nothing to denote his rank. The only item he wore that showed any rank was the Rosarius of the Inquisition, and the customary dark robes many Inquisitors wore.

“This Grandmaster has recently contacted us about a way to remain faithful to the Imperium at large,” Calgar said. “He speaks with the authority of the High Lords of Terra.”

“My thanks, Calgar,” the Grandmaster smiled. “I dare to assume that many of you have seen the Emperor as of late? Am I wrong to think that the Emperor is acting…out of character?”

Slowly, everyone nodded.

“The High Lords feel the same,” he said. “I pride myself in being exceptionally good at my work of sniffing out corruption. And in my searches, I have found something …disturbing, to say the least. If I may?”

“If this involves the security of the Imperium, then please continue, Grandmaster,” Calgar said. “After all, we were destined to build the very bedrock of the Imperium. We take any threat to its safety with the utmost care.”

“Thank you, but you’ll have to forgive me,” the Grandmaster said. “It’s just…this report has greatly upset everyone who has read it.”

The Grandmaster took a few deep breaths, expertly building the tension. Calgar and the Captains, unaccustomed to the pomp and circumstances of Inquisition work, were none the wiser.

“The girl who is channeling the Emperor is a perversion. A queer creature, a clone forged by the Blasphemer to wrest control of the Emperor’s power from him to use for their own twisted end.”

The room broke apart as Captains shouted.

“What?”

“That cannot be! Every clone that has been created has been a monstrosity forged in Chaos!”

“Sadly, it is true,” the Grandmaster sighed dramatically. “Many of the High Lords felt the same pain of treachery when this news was brought to them. I myself can hardly comprehend the magnitude of the sin.”

“What is the purpose of using such an abomination?” Calgar demanded.

“I know not; it is the act of the feral Wolves,” he shrugged. “But what I do know is this: the Emperor is there, but she is using him. He is powerful, more powerful than anything we had ever know; He is the Emperor, after all.

“Yet somehow, the Blasphemer was able to find a way to manipulate the Emperor’s sacred power. Attempting to control the Emperor has obviously driven the creature mad, hence the ramblings this ‘Empress’ goes on. To make it even more troubling, this ‘Empress’ is seeking to end the entire Imperial Cult, to deprave worship from the entire human race.

“While I know that many Astartes are more ardent followers of their Primarch and the Codex Astartes than the Imperial Cult, anyone who claims that the Emperor is not a god, or tries to destroy the Imperial Creed, must be a fowl traitor whose life cannot be tolerated. How many times have we heard the traitor say that we ‘follow the wrong god?’ How many times have they cried ‘death to the false Emperor?’ How many times do they howl for an end to our very way of life?”

“Far too many,” Calgar said.

“And that is what this creature is attempting to do. I have been on Holy Terra when the ‘Empress’ was awoken. I’ve seen, with my own two eyes, that she commands that all holy text be destroyed, has called for an end to all worship, and has denied the Emperor’s divinity.”

“Pardon me, Grandmaster,” Calgor said, “but if you were on Terra…is it true? We have heard word that a Cardinal of the Holy Synod was killed by the Emperor’s hand. That, that cannot be true, can it?”

“Sadly, it is,” the Grandmaster said. “One of our trusted assets witnessed it herself. The ‘Empress’ had killed a High Lord of Terra in cold blood, all for remaining loyal to the Creed.”

Calgar sunk back in his chair, processing the news. His fellow Captains traded dark looks.

“The Emperor kills a High Lord of Terra, all for believing what is necessary to believe. And then he tries to destroy the very fabric of the Imperium. Am I alone in thinking that is heretical, even traitorous behavior?”

The Captains muttered amongst themselves. The Grandmaster knew the Ultramarines were not as religiously devoted as some other Space Marine Chapters, but they knew traitorous behavior when they saw it.

Calgar didn’t tell the Grandmaster to stop talking, so he continued.

“Now, with the Crusade over, the Blasphemer has this clone, this genetic monstrosity, in charge of the entire Imperium; everything is under his rule. It is even possible that the Abomination was able to poison Lord Guilliman, both in body and mind. It would certainly explain his rash behavior, as you have noted.”

The Inquisitor had to be speaking the truth. They served the Imperium, how could they lie?

“What the High Lords propose is to simply return things to the way they were, and restore the natural balance of order with the High Lords leading the Imperium, the Imperial Cult reigning over all, the Codex Astartes being revered by _all_ Chapters,” the Grandmaster said, “and above all else, ignoring the mad ramblings of a girl gone drunk with power. May we count on you?”

“I believe I speak on behalf of every Captain here when I say we are in agreement,” Calgar said. “Is there a plan to deal with this Abomination?”

“We are glad we can still count on the honor and loyalty of the Ultramarines,” the Grandmaster smiled. “We have something just in mind.”

 

* * *

 

Maeva took a deep breath to calm herself. She had to keep up the appearance of disinterest, to at least try to appear normal so that Geist could try and get close enough to plant the grenade. Even though they weren’t at Holy Terra yet, their attempt to get Laura back began now.

Walking through the ship, she made her way to the command bridge. She smiled and nodded at the Custodes stationed at the bulkhead, and carefully ducked in. The inside of the command bridge was a huge, multi-floored design. Intricate and regal, it was royalty through and through. And damn near everyone was there.

The fucking Emperor himself was idly chattering away, reading what looked like a series of reports. Aevar was standing by him, along with Kemuel. Both were forced to answer rhetorical questions.

Croan and Legato seemed to be pouring over some weapon schematics, undoubtedly drawn by the Master of Mankind himself. She even spied Parsef and Julas standing off to the side, waiting to see Terra again. Helfist stood off to the side, taking a pull from a flask.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Helfist said, walking up to her.

“Wha’, an’ miss th’ trip back ta Terra?” She said, putting a big smile on her face. “Kinda surprised th’ High Lords let us Fenrisians back.”

“Guess there are such things as miracles, aren’t there?” Helfist laughed. “You’ve seen that assassin around? Parsef has been asking for her.”

“Don’t know,” she shrugged. Her heart pounded in her chest; she did her best to remain aloof. “Guess it means she’s doin’ her job, yea?”

“Too well,” Vermund snorted

“We are exiting the warp,” a tech priest said. “Transitioning back to real-space.”

The ship rumbled, and the shields that blocked out the immaterium out slid down. Maeva saw the small fleet popping into existence alongside them, most of the ships belonging to the Dark Angels, along with the Lamenter’s single ship. Hanging in the distance was Terra itself, a small blue dot in the void.

Maeva swallowed hard. The Throne Room was down there; their attempt to save their girl was down there. She looked at the holo-table. It showed their small fleet, seven ships total. She thought it was strange how the Sky Warriors were so quick to go back to their own planets. Then again, they had just fought off the Black Crusade, and two Chapters had lost their Primarchs; they needed to see who would lead them, bury the Primarchs, and gather what strength they had left.

The ground shook. Maeva turned and nearly jumped out of her skin. It still unnerved her to be so close to a Primarch.

“Back to Terra so soon?” Lion asked, entering the bridge. “This trip was very quick.”

“Damn quick,” the Empress agreed. “The warp has been like that for a while now; too damn smooth. Maybe it’s our lucky charm here.”

Aevar looked up, as if he was called by name.

“Speaking of which, I have to see what the fuck you are!” Formerly Laura said. “Man, I can’t wait. That strange glow about you has been bugging me something awful.”

Terra grew larger and larger. Soon Maeva could make out the shipyard that hovered above the planet, as well as the defense fleet and orbital weapon platforms. Lights dotted the entire continent and former oceans.

“There is something strange about this,” Lion said. “We should be in vox contact with the ship yard, the fleet, and defense grid.”

“I’m not seeing any attempts to hail us,” Aevar said.

As they drew closer to Terra, a line of ships appeared between them and the ship yard.

“This is not right,” Lion said. “This is just like Caliban. It is too quiet, and the Terran fleet is in tight formation.”

“Don’t know much about Caliban, but something isn’t right,” Helfist said. “Feels wrong.”

“Bring our shields up,” Lion demanded.

The bridge went quiet as everyone looked at the Primarch.

“Sire?” One of the many tech priests said. “I’m detecting a faint vox signal. It is washed out, but it is coming on an emergency channel.”

“Raise the void shields!” Lion shouted. “Bring our fleet to combat readiness!”

The entire bridge paused at the Lion’s outburst.

“You heard the Primarch,” Aevar said, breaking the spell. “Bring everything—“

“Weapons lock!” A tech priest yelled. “They are targeting us!”

Lance batteries lit up the void in brilliant flashes. Maeva thought their threads were as good as cut, but they bounced off the thick void shields of the Emperor’s ship; if it were not for Lion, the shields would not have been activated in time.

“Who the fuck shot at us?” The Empress demanded.

“All ships in our fleet are under attack,” the tech priest said. “Three are venting atmosphere; their shields were not up in time.”

“Just like Caliban,” Lion growled. “Just fucking like it. We drop out of the warp and make orbit, they shoot us out of the skies. All hands, battle stations. Terra has been occupied by the enemy.”

“That is impossible,” Kemuel stammered.

“It just happened!”

“Someone better shot back,” the Emperor said.

“Pick your targets carefully,” Lion said. “We cannot let stray shots land on Terra. I will not let it face the same fate of Caliban.”

“Fucking right it better not,” the Emperor said.

The ship rumbled as return fire left the ship. The Terran dockyards rolled as they absorbed shots meant for the fleet; it tore them to pieces. But even when the odd return shot passed through the dockyard, the defense fleet had their shields raised; their ships survived the salvo.

“What is the damage?” Lion asked.

“We lost three ships, one is still venting atmosphere. It will go down soon.”

“Fuck,” the Empress muttered. “We got sucker punched.”

“Sire! We are being hailed by the captain of the commanding vessel.”

“Put it on screen,” the Empress said.

A man replaced the floating globe of Terra. He wore the suit of an Admiral in the Imperial Navy.

_Imposter,_ he spat. _Return control of the Emperor’s power to its rightful owner, and your death shall be quick._

“Don’t know if you realize it, but I _am_ the Emperor,” the Emperor said.

_Lies, Abomination! You are a damned clone, and we demand your surrender._

“’You demand my surrender?’ On whose authority?” The Emperor laughed. “I’m the Emperor!”

_The High Lords of Terra and the Ecclesiarchy do not recognize your authority, you perversion! You are a usurper and a traitor!_

“Okay, I admire your dedication to duty, but I’m off the Throne now,” she said. “The High Lords are out of a job, and the Ecclesiarchy will be too, soon.”

_I will not let you profane the name of the Ecclesiarchy,_ the man said. _I will blow you from the sky, traitor! Your fate is sealed!_

The channel ended.

“Incoming salvo,” a tech priest cried.

“All power to the void shield,” Lion demanded.

The ship rocked with impacts as the lance batteries and missiles landed. Maeva grabbed a hand rail to steady herself. Many other tech priests followed suit.

“Shields weak, but holding.”

“Return fire,” the Emperor said. “We don’t have a lot of options here.”

“No, we don’t,” Lion said. “We are outnumbered.”

“Outnumbered and outgunned, but we got options,” the Emperor said. “Let’s take the fight to them. Get boarding teams ready. Call the Lamenters, we’ll need ‘em.”

“Sire, warp breach! Just behind us,” the tech priest said. “It’s…it’s the Sisters of Battle.”

“Sire,” Julas said, “if the Ecclesiarchy has declared us traitors, the Sisters would be our enemy.”

“How many ships?”

“Twenty-five, sire. No, more. It’s mostly battle barges. It…the Sisters have brought their full fleet.”

Despite the thunderous explosions that rocked the ship, the bridge went quiet.

“Well, shit,” the Emperor said. “We got rocked pretty damn badly.”

“We can still survive,” Lion said. “We can teleport to Terra’s surface, rally the defenses to re-take the Palace.”

“If the Palace held back Horus during his siege, what can we do with a handful of troops?” The Emperor said. “I mean, we might as well, but fuck, we got it good.”

“The Sisters are firing,” the tech priest said weakly.

Maeva couldn’t believe it. They were going to die over the skies of Terra.

“They are not shooting at us,” Lion said, staring at the holotable.

“Shit, would you look at that,” Helfist said, pointing out the window. Just as he said, the enemy ships above Terra rolled with fire as they were caught unaware by the Sisters. “The Sisters shot the bad guys!”

“The Sisters are hailing us.”

“Put it on.”

The holographic screen turned to a picture of Lynia, of all people.

_Emperor, the enemy has taken Terra,_ she said.

“I can see that!”

_Then we are too late,_ Lynia sighed. _I…I am sorry, but the High Lords and the Ecclesiarchy have moved against us._

“Probably ‘cus I put them out of a job,” the Emperor groaned. “They rebel, all so they could rule. Just like fucking Horus. Man, what kind of fucked up priorities do they have?”

_We will curse the traitors once we have re-taken Terra,_ Lynia said. _Until then, we must return fire._

“Bring your fleet around,” the Emperor said. “Make sure you don’t miss. Anything goes stray, it goes into Terra.”

_As you order._

Maeva watched the holographic display. It showed the Sister’s ships moving in on a fast burn, lined up in combat order. Lance batteries, missiles and cannon shots streaked passed them, hammering into the enemy ships. Shields flickered and failed, but many ships still stayed up. But it was good to know they had the numbers advantage.

“Got another vox burst from the surface,” Aevar said. He typed madly at a logic-terminal. “The traitors are trying to jam it. It’s coming from the Throne Room on the emergency channels. It’s garbled real good, but let’s see…Good, they’re just sending us a text file. That makes it easier.”

Aevar hacked away at the console, working as fast as he could.

“It says, ‘sky defenses down,’” he said. “Nothing else. Looks like whoever’s on the anti-air guns is either on our side or out of the picture.”

“That means we got holdouts down there,” Helfist said. “We need to support them.”

“Agreed,” the Emperor said. “Raise the Lamenters.”

A fizzled holo-vid jumped on the screen. It shook with distortion.

“Yoo-hoo, anyone there?”

_Apologies, Emperor,_ a Lamenter said, suddenly jumping on the screen. Distortion and static made it nearly impossible to hear him. _We took some very bad hits._

“If the video is any indicator, you sure did,” the Emperor said. “Looks like treason is all the rage in Terra, and we need to get to the Throne Room. Word is anti-air is knocked out. Are you ready to jump?”

_When we say we took bad hits, we mean they destroyed our ship,_ the Lamenter said. _Again._

“Man, bad things really _do_ happen to you.”

_It is our lot in life, but we are used to it,_ he said. _We have no control of our ship, and we are venting atmosphere. But we are still alive, and we can still fight. We will load into our drop pods and make for the surface at your order._

“You do realize we have to get _close_ to Terra before we can safely drop, right?”

_That requires the luxury of a working ship. We are short on that right now._

“Then how will you drop?”

_Our ship is spinning,_ the Lamenter said. _We will wait for it to line up with a shot at Terra, then jump._

“Ballsy; I like it. Alright then, here’s the plan,” the Emperor said. “The Lamenters will jump to Terra. We’ll escort their pods until we get to drop height. Then we find out just what the fuck is going on at Terra. Sisters, you still on the channel?”

_We are,_ Lynia said.

“Send a few of your Sisters down, too. We’ll need their numbers. Once you drop your troops, take back the skies.”

_As you order._

“Get to the pods,” Lion said. “Custodes, ride with the Emperor. We shall meet you on the surface.”

“Get a move on, people! I want to drop in ten minutes,” the Emperor said.

Custodes brushed past Maeva, securing passage for the Emperor.

_“You need to stay here,”_ Aevar said to her, switching to Juvik. _“Keep an eye on Julas and Parsef. And if you can find her, keep an eye on that damn assassin of yours. They answer to the High Lords; they might turn traitor with them.”_

She looked at Julas and Parsef. They stood by the side, whispering amongst themselves.

_“An’ th’ fuck can I do against a fuckin’ Sky Warrior?”_

_“Right now, just keep tabs on them,”_ he said. _“It looks like the Emperor doesn’t trust them either.”_

Despite all of the Custodes leaving, two stayed behind. They moved closer to Julas and Parsef, to encourage them to not move.

_“Shit, looks like they’re up th’ creek,”_ she said. _“Yea, I’ll gladly watch ‘em. This don’t seem like a good fight ta get inta.”_

_“Stay on the vox. Might need you to be our eyes in the sky.”_

Maeva watched Julas and Parsef nervously. She could see them turning traitor, but Geist? She couldn’t have known. Could she…?


	38. Empire's End

 

Aevar checked the pod, making sure the Custodes and the Empress were securely connected.

“Let’s get a move on,” the Empress said. “That’s my palace they’re wrecking down there.”

“We’re a few minutes from the launch window,” Aevar said. “We’ll make it.”

“Fucking better.”

The doors to the drop pod closed, and the massive mechanical arm moved it to the launch tube.

“Ready here,” Aevar said.

“Lion and his team are ready as well,” Croan said.

“Lion fit in a drop pod?”

“A dreadnaught drop pod,” Croan said. “His Custode guard will ride down separately.”

“That leaves us,” Aevar said. “Come on, we only got a minute ‘till we’re due.”

Croan waited, making sure the two pods, Lion and his Custodes, were securely loaded in the launch tubes. Then he ran with Aevar to their drop pod, where Helfist was already bolted in and waiting for them.

“Finally going to war with the Allfather,” Vermund said. “Never thought we’d be fighting on Terra, though.”

“Sounds like the real wolftime, don’t it?” Aevar said. His cranial implant wirelessly linked with the logic-engine, then jumped aboard as the pod was moved to the tube as the mechanized arms moved to ready the pod or launch.

“This is utter madness,” Croan said as he bolted himself into the pod.

“Shit, this goes _beyond_ madness,” Aevar said. His armor locked him in place, and the pod was placed in the tube. “Twenty seconds until launch window. That means the Lamenters are already flying through space.”

“Let’s hope they got enough luck to get to the surface,” Helfist said.

“Let us hope we were right that the anti-air batteries are inoperable,” Croan said. “We will have a very short ride if they are not.”

The pod jerked violently as it was shot through the tube. Aevar held onto his harness as acceleration gripped him.

“Vox check,” Aevar said, accessing their channel. “Invillus, can you hear me?”

_We can,_ the Lamenter said.

“Oh good, you’re still with us.”

_Against all odds, we are._

“Looks like you might set a record for longest drop pod assault.”

_Good thing we are on Terra; maybe we can write the record ourselves,_ Invillus said. _And maybe we can take down our banner from the Halls of the Fallen, seeing as we are still alive and not a dead Chapter. Yet._

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that, right?”

“Hitting atmosphere,” Croan said. “We are entering anti-air range.”

The pod shook as it entered Terra’s atmosphere. Aevar held his breath.

“Hmm. No flak,” Helfist said. “Guess someone down there really likes us.”

“Aye, so far, so good,” he mumbled, gripping the hand holds tighter. “Fuck, I hate being useless.”

“Put your faith—er, trust in the pod, brother,” Croan said.

“Still feels wyrd to not say that word, eh?”

“It will require quite an adjustment.”

The pod’s retro-thrusters burned to life, forcing Aevar into the floor of the pod. He clenched his teeth as they hit the ground. The doors to the pod dropped open, the restraining bolts unlocked and he jumped back on to Terran soil.

He nearly didn’t. The pod had landed on what seemed to be a balcony, precariously close to the edge. He jumped back; another foot further and he would have fallen hundreds of meters to what looked like a massive boulevard.

“Watch your step,” he said. “It’s a dozy.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Helfist said. He was a second behind him, and avoided narrowly jumping to his doom.

“Looks like we landed in good position,” Croan said, pointing ahead of them. The massive Eternity Gate stretched out ahead of them; they couldn’t be more than a half a kilometer from it. Gunfire echoed off the massive golden gate; the traitors were here, too.

“Pretty hard target to miss,” he said. “Invillus, you there?”

_That we are. We landed just in front of the Eternity Gate._

“Do you see the Sisters? The Emperor?”

_The Sisters have landed near us. The Emperor seems to have landed near you. Lion and the Dark Angels are not here as of yet. If you break through the building you have landed at, you will come upon a causeway. The Emperor is taking that to the Gates._

“Excellent,” Croan said. “We will link up with the Emperor and move as one. Hold the ground for us, brother.”

_When do we not? Although I would recommend that you find cover; it is a shooting gallery over here._

Croan kicked down the door to the balcony. They found themselves plowing through a massive, plush office.

“Fucking pencil pushers,” Aevar growled. “How soft have they grown here?”

“They do good work, wolf,” Croan said. “Remember, it takes more to run the Imperium than punching this to try and make them go away.”

“But punching things is fun,” Helfist said.

Aevar kicked open a door that was bigger than he was, and they ran through rich mahogany wood floors, making the wood crack under the combined weight of themselves and their armor. Aevar saw the golden armor of the Custodes walking by the window. Just as Invillus said, there was a raised causeway just outside the window.

“After me,” Aevar said. He launched himself through the window, his armor breaking it with no effort. He landed and rolled to his feet; he was looking at the point of many spears. One of them was Kemuel’s. “Sorry, traffic was terrible.”

“You wolves sure love your dramatic entrances,” the Empress laughed as Helfist jumped after him.

“They also like nearly jumping to their deaths,” Croan said, carefully jumping from the window to the raised train track. “He nearly jumped to the boulevard below.”

“Long first step, ain’t it?” The Empress said. “Come on, let’s get my Throne back.”

They broke into a run. Aevar fell in next to Kemuel.

“What’s your take on this?” He asked.

“I do not know,” the Custode said. “But if the High Lords have declared us traitors, they are playing a very dangerous game.”

“Then let’s hope they don’t have more balls than brains, eh?”

The Empress easily jogged down the tracks, whistling a careless tune. Custodes ran ahead and behind her; Aevar, Helfist, and Croan brought up the rear. The railway lead to the gate, where they saw Lamenters forming lines with Sisters of Battle. The massive Eternity Gate was still open, but it was heavily manned. They all came to a stop by the edge of the Gate, granting them only a scant amount of cover.

“What kind of defense are we up against?” Aevar asked.

“Whatever it is, it is not the full measure of the Eternity Gate,” Kemuel said.

Where there were once intricate murals of the heroes of the Imperium along the top of the gate, hidden slots were pulled back, revealing weapons embankments by the dozens.

Turrets holding heavy bolters, multi-meltas, lascannons and even plasma cannons sat idle. If they had loyalists holding out inside the Gates, they were doing an excellent job keeping the weapons offline. But the turrets were not the only weapons that threatened their advances.

There were Imperial Guardsmen at the entrance of the gate, entrenched behind massive walls of sandbags. Heavy weapons teams with lascannons were spread out every five or ten feet. With the kilometer-long gate, it had more firepower than Aevar had ever seen the Guard wield, and that was without counting the dozens of Leman Russ tank variants and super heavy Baneblades.

The drop pods that landed in front of the heavy weapons and tanks had been immediately destroyed. Lamenters and Sisters alike were crouched behind the burnt-out wrecks for cover from the guns of the Guards. Many lay dead in the open.

“ _That’s_ not the ‘full measure’ of the fucking gate?” Helfist cursed.

“It is not,” Kemuel said. “The defense turrets are still inoperable, and there are no active grav amps or quad-cannons. Not to mention, the doors are still open.”

“Shit, I don’t care if they roll out a red carpet, that’s a tough nut to crack,” Aevar said.

“And we are short on heavy weapons,” Croan said.

“Don’t worry, we got one better,” the Empress smiled. She nodded behind them. “We have Lion.”

Charging down the causeway they were recently on, Lion came running, scores of his Dark Angels and his own Custode Guards at his heels. Seeing the massive Primarch, many of the guardsmen and women faltered. A few even abandoned their post, only to be shot by their Commissar.

“By the dark forest, that is a lot of firepower,” Lion said, ducking for cover at the outside of the Gate.

“It is, but we can handle it,” the Empress said. “Let’s give diplomacy one last chance before we take this place back.” She walked out from the cover of the corner, towards the open range of the Guard.

Custodes tried to jump in front of her, but she burst into radiant light. It was the Emperor’s vast psykic might, and it was illuminating the entire Gate. The fire slowly stopped until all was quiet; not only were the Guard still, but the Lamenters and Sisters of Battle were as well.

_I am the Emperor,_ the psykic voice boomed across the gate. Men and women held their hands against ears, trying to keep the words from their brains. More than a few Lamenters and Sisters followed suit. _And you stand between me and my Throne. Throw down your weapons, and your lives will be spared._

The Eternity Gate was quiet for a full ten seconds. The only thing that Aevar could see was the Emperor in radiant light.

A bolt rang out. It bounced harmlessly off the Emperor’s breastplate.

_No?_

Lasgun fire began illuminating the space between the Emperor and the Guards. One shot turned to ten, then a hundred. Custodes rushed forward, carrying massive storm shields. They formed a bulwark around the Empress, protecting her from harm.

_Well, you guy got balls, I’ll give you that,_ she said. “Lion, you ready?”

“We are _not_ charging this gunline!” Lion yelled.

“Well, not now.”

The Emperor snapped her fingers, and cries of horror rose from the rank of the Guards. Men and women broke rank, clawing at their skin like they were covered in bugs. Dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of guards dropped their weapons. Tankers jumped from the battle tanks and Baneblades, swatting at unseen horrors. Commissars shot fleeing men and women; a few even shot themselves.

The Empress was cursing the Guards. Dozens of meters worth of firepower suddenly stopped, then it was nearly half of the entire kilometer-long defense line. Other heavy weapons teams tried to pivot to fill the gap, but the turrets they were placed on didn’t allow for a great range in motion.

“I do not like where this is going,” Lion said, “but we have to retake the Throne. To me!”

Lion charged across the open ground, shooting a plasma pistol.

“Come on, you dumb apes, you wanna live forever?” The Empress laughed as she charged himself. Custodes ran with them, followed by Astartes and Sisters.

“Well, shit, might as well,” Helfist said. Power pooled in his eyes as he pulled the power of Fenris and cast it on Aevar and Croan. He felt the blessing of endurance seep into his bones; he could do anything. “Let’s go.”

The entire concave entrance to the Eternity Gate was filled with laser lights as they charged forward. The Imperial Guard were firing en masse at the charging Lion and Emperor. Lascannons burst against Lion, but his refractor shield pushed many brilliant lances away.

“For the Emperor!”

Aevar jerked his head to the side; the Sisters and Lamenters strewn across the massive Gate were mounting their change as well. He saw many squads assuming firing positions to cover the assault, but against the sheer number of the Guard, not to mention the tanks, they began taking losses.

One lascannon bisected a Custode. Many Sisters and Lamenters fell to the ground, riddled with lasgun holes; against such numbers, someone was bound to get lucky. But many Guardsmen were blinded by the Emperor’s psykic spell; they were clawing at their skin instead of manning their positions, detracting from the amount of fire they put out. It made them a vulnerable target.

Then Lion was in their lines. He brought his massive sword around; bodies and body parts were thrown in the air. Aevar saw the Emperor cutting men and women down as if it was nothing.

But it was war, and war is what he was good at. Aevar snarled and leapt at a group of Guards. Their lasguns singed his armor; one was able to cut his cheek and draw blood. With his blood pounding, the murder-make was upon him; he felt nothing.

He swung Katla, shattering the men and women. His servo-arm shot out and broke the neck of another. The Guard were good at shooting, but when it came to actual fighting, they were none that could stand against a Vlka.

He turned on the last man. The man lost his nerve, dropped his gun. He tugged at a simple necklace as Aevar advanced.

“Emperor, save me!” He cried. The necklace he held tightly was an Aquila.

Aevar stopped.

“Emperor, at the moment of my death, deliver me from evil,” the man sobbed. “Save me, a humble servant of your eternal will. Save the weakest, so we may serve you in your holy light…”

Aevar had killed heretic guardsmen before. He had killed traitor brothers. He had killed foul daemons of every shape and size, and he had butchered xenos by the thousands. But Aevar had never killed a loyalist.

The man was in his final seconds of life, but the Guardsman didn’t curse him. He didn’t yell to the dark gods for one final boon of power. He was begging, begging for the Emperor. Aevar had heard it a million times when the Vlka came to the aid of the Guards.

Aevar blinked, looking himself over. Blood from the Guards he swept away was sprayed across his armor and beard. It was almost like some sick follower of Khorne had taken a massive paint brush with blood, then smeared and smattered him all over. He stood there, towering over the simple, terrified guardsman, the very picture of the monstrous, mindless barbarian.

From the ground, the guardsman looked up at him. Fear oozed from every pore. Aevar could smell it in his sweat, his piss, even his spit.

“I…” Aevar stammered. Katla trembled in his hands. “I never…”

With his own shaking hands, the mortal guardsman pulled a pin on a grenade.

It was reflex; Aevar kicked the man. Against the might of a superhuman Sky Warrior, the man went flying, the grenade still in his hand. A few feet from the ground, he exploded into viscera. Some splattered Aevar.

Aevar staggered back as if he was hit with a hammer. He had killed a loyal man. He looked around, seeing the Sisters, Lamenters and Custodes in battle.

When they first landed, when they had faced a well-fortified gun line, fortune had favored the Guard; no longer. With the Emperor blinding a wide swath of them, and Lion punching a hole in their defense line, everything was collapsing. The line was breaking as guardsmen tried to shoot at enemies that were suddenly all around them.

Sisters burned Guardsmen alive with their hand flamers, their armor deflecting lasgun rounds. Lamenters and Dark Angels hacked them apart with bolt and blade, throwing blood and guts everywhere. Custodes moved through them with surgical precision, always in motion, always killing, their spears spinning in graceful arcs that flung blood this way and that, swords that rose and fell with beautiful precision.

And Lion and the Emperor weren’t even taking the fight seriously. He saw the Primarch carelessly kick men and women across the great expanse of the Gate. He sunk his sword deep into a Baneblade, detonating ordinance kept inside their hulls. The Empress’ sword was a blur, and she was whistling as if it were a marry stroll.

Guards ran at Aevar, clutching demolition charges in their hands.

“Die, traitor,” they cried. Ever their last efforts to curse them were dripping with terror. It was as easy as blinking; Katla came sailing across his shoulders, and the guards were swept away. Either by some twist of fate, they were still alive long enough to trigger the demolition charges, or the charges were on a timer. It exploded, throwing Aevar with enough force to rattle his teeth. He rolled, regaining his senses. A hand pulled him to his feet.

“Your duty is not done, brother,” Croan said. Blood dripped down his massive broadsword. Aevar nearly slipped; he had stepped on what looked like the bisected torso of a woman.

“They’re loyalists,” he stammered.

“They tried to kill the Emperor!”

“No, they’re still loyal,” Aevar mumbled.

He wanted to stop, but he was a Son of Russ, slaughter incarnate. Unleashing the murder-make was as easy as breathing; where there was a Guardsman that attacked him, he swung back.

Another guard brought a turret to bear on him. Aevar launched himself at the man, crushing him with Katla. The man turned to pink mist and meaty chunks. He wanted to stop, but one did not bring the Vlka Fenryka to a fight and expect them to simply stop.

“By the Throne, please!”

“Emperor, save your servant--“

“Guide my aim, make it true, grant your servant with courage to strike your foes--!”

Men and women were crying for the Emperor to save them. Aevar doubted he would forget those sounds for the rest of his life. And not ten meters from them, the Emperor waded through their numbers, deaf to their pleas.

“You’re not traitors,” Aevar said to the men and women he killed. He realized that he was pleading with them, begging their forgiveness. “You’re not.”

Tanks were moving in a full retreat, their battle cannons shooting wildly to try and keep the invaders from the lines of the Sisters and Lamenters.

Brilliant lascannon shots hit the tanks. The Lamenters had grabbed the discarded cannons, tore them from their pod mountings, and slung their power supplies over their shoulders. They formed rank, becoming crude groups of Devastator Marines. With their gene-enhanced strength amplified by their armor, they easily carried the heavy weapons.

The tanks trained their cannons at the groups of lascannons. Shield carrying Custodes pushed through their lines, forming a phalanx of storm shields. The heavy ordinance bounced off the shields, and the Lamenters pressed forward.

“Sisters, form ranks,” a voice cried out. Aevar was shocked to see Lynia at the head of the charge. “We move with the Emperor!”

She was covered with blood. The blood of loyalists.

“No, no, not her too, please not her too…” He broke into a sprint to catch up. But the massive force of advancing soldiers kept him apart.

Into the Eternity Gate they went, chasing the retreating tank columns. They passed by burned-out husks, bodies that still burned in their mad attempt to escape.

“Please, they’re loyal,” Aevar stammered. “Give them the order to surrender. Stop us, please.”

But the Emperor was more intent on whistling than on ordering a stop to the slaughter. They drove deeper and deeper into the Palace, Lion and the Emperor pushing for the Sanctum Imperialis. Last lines of defense were swept away, their forward momentum not even dented.

The gates to the Throne Room were within a stone’s throw. The Guards were mounting their last defense, and they had saved the best for last.

The yell went up from the front of the lines.

“Assassins!”

Rising above the shouts of the Sisters and Lamenters came horrible, tortured screams. Aevar spotted dozens of black-suited, skull helmeted men were launching themselves at the front lines.

“Eversors!” Aevar saw that it was Helfist who cried out the name of the assassins.

Power swords met artificer armor, only barely being pushed back by the hard work that he and Croan had put into each piece of armor. Despite being simple humans, the assassins’ strength was able to dent the heavy armor.

Even if the blows were turned away, it didn’t stop the inhuman assassins from moving forward. Where armor turned blades away, they sunk gauntleted needles into joints and crevices. Lamenters and Dark Angels jerked as poison was pumped into their blood, Sisters cried as they were hacked apart, even Custodes were felled by several assassins leaping at them. They tried to assault Helfist, but his blessing held true, and kept his tough as iron.

“We’re all loyal,” Aevar mumbled.

Custodes moved against the Eversors, disarming them and running them through with their swords and spears. The assassins exploded, showering them with acid blood. A few Custodes fell to their knees, trying to get back up.

Ogryns lumbered into the fray, massive shield slabs keeping them armored. Lion stepped to meet them, and even the heaviest armor stood no chance against him.

With their last gambit failed, the Guard were left defenseless. They pounded on the Gate, trying to escape the carnage.

“Open the gate,” the soon-to-be-butchered Guards cried. “The Usurpers are here! Please, save us!”

The gates began to grind open, and they yelled their relief. A few men tried to push their way through the narrow opening. Suddenly, a blade shot from the entrance, skewering two men’s heads.

Battle-weary Custodes pushed the doors open. They were caked with blood and gore; their armor bore marks of battle where bullet and blade nearly did them in. But they were still alive, and they were angry.

As the Gates opened, more and more embattled Custodes poured from the Throne Room. The Guard stood between them and the Emperor; that put them in the worst possible spot to be. Aevar wanted to press his hands against his ears, but he couldn’t.

It had stopped being a war the second Lion breached the Guard’s lines. It was a bloody slaughter, an act worthy of traitors, not the Imperium.

“Fucking finally,” the Emperor groaned. “If they messed with my original body, I swear to Metallica…”

“Victory!” The Lamenters cried.

“Victory!” The Dark Angels sang.

“Victory!” The Sisters cheered.

The cry was repeated. Aevar stared at the butchered Guardsmen. They were stacked off to the side, their dead bodies already being treated as trash.

Aevar fell to his knees.

“They were loyal…”

“This is your first time fighting the ‘loyal?’”

Aevar looked up. Lion was approaching him.

“They _were_ loyal,” he snarled. “They weren’t offering blood sacrifices, they weren’t pledging their souls to the dark gods, they were begging for the Emperor!”

Lion shook his head.

“I have not seen this since Horus’ treason,” he sighed. “It is dirty business, fighting brothers.”

“I can fight our fallen brothers,” Aevar snapped. “But these guards have done nothing but been led by the wrong men!”

“Eh, fuck ‘em, I gave ‘em a chance.”

Aevar jumped as Laura sauntered over to him, blood drying on her armor. She brushed her long hair out of her face…her disinterested, disdainful face. She wasn’t even giving the Guardsmen the simple acknowledgement that they were human; they were beneath her, so utterly useless and worthless. She had ordered the hundreds of thousands of men to their death just for following orders. She had killed them on the off-chance they could not be reasoned with.

Aevar felt sick.

_Laura…oh Hel’s teeth, where did I go wrong?_

“Remember from a few minutes ago?” Laura said. “One last chance for diplomacy?”

Then Aevar remembered that it wasn’t Laura, but rather the Emperor that was using her body.

_What have I done to you? Where did_ I _fail you…?_

“They were calling out to you,” he stammered.

“You mean _praying,_ ” the Empress corrected. “Remember what I said about praying?”

“They were still loyal to you!”

“Tough shit, they tried to kill me. Come on, let’s make sure my Throne and my original body are still good.” The Emperor nodded towards the Throne.

Aevar heard a gasp from the pile of dead bodies. Ignoring the Empress, he ran to it. There was a bloodied face at the top of the pile who had gasped.

“Water,” the dying guard said. Aevar couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. It mattered not.

He reached to his pouch and pulled a small canteen from it. He offered it to the guard, but they had already perished.

“Rest,” he said, closing their eyes. “You have done your duty.”

“This is madness,” Croan said, looking at the battle. He shook as the Lion approached him.

“I overheard what my father said,” the Primarch said. “And what you have said. It _is_ madness, more than you can ever know.”

“They _were_ loyal,” Aevar said. “You can understand that, can’t you?”

Lion gave him a questioning look.

“They took up arms against my father,” he said. “They stood between us and unification. They spat against our Compliance. Surely you can understand the need for humanity to be united against the darkness, can you not?”

Aevar couldn’t meet Lion’s eyes.

“I would have thought that a Son of Russ would have understood the need to dirty one’s hands,” Lion said as he walked away. “What we do is not good, but it is necessary.”

“Come, to your feet, brother,” Croan said, pulling him up. “We must not look weak.”

“’No job too dirty, no deed to dark,’” he mumbled. “Aye, I remember saying those words. I’ve done terrible things, Croan. Horrible things, but all in the name of the Allfather.” He looked at the butchered corpses. “But this is something I never expected to do.”

“What are you babbling about?” The Salamander asked. “Did that demolition charge rattle your brain?”

“No wonder Russ said he was done being his executioner. It takes too much work to seem this barbaric and savage. And by the time we look it, we act it as well.”

“Speak sense,” Croan said, grabbing Aevar by the shoulder.

“Open your eyes, Croan,” Aevar spat. “Didn’t you hear their cries?”

The Salamander stopped.

“You did then, eh? You heard ‘em crying out?”

“Does this have a point?”

Aevar knew bravado when he heard it.

“What’s the oath you took when you joined the Salamanders?” He asked. “What was the first brand you got?”

Croan stiffened.

“And what do you think you just did?” Aevar laughed darkly. “Come on, let’s see what our reward is for breaking our closest held vows.”

Croan took one lingering look at the piles of dead Guardsmen, then hesitantly followed Aevar. He unconsciously rubbed his chest, where he took his first brand, ‘Protect the Weak.’

 

* * *

 

“By the Omnissiah,” Legato gasped.

“Fekkin’ shit,” Maeva agreed.

They took a few steps from the Thunkderhawk ship, and the horrid smell of death was already hitting them with the force of a club to the face.

The hallway that lead to the Throne Room was being cleaned. That meant that dead bodies were being pushed into great piles by servitors outfitted with dozer blades. The dead were piled meters high. Once a pile got high enough, roughed up trucks were brought in, and the dead were shoved onto the beds, then driven away.

Maeva didn’t know where the dead were taken, and she was damned happy not knowing.

“Y’ know, maybe we shoulda waited a little longer ‘for comin’ down, eh?”

Legato brought a handkerchief to his nose. Maeva wished she had one of those; the smell was incredible. She had smelled a mass grave before, but the ones she smelled on Fenris had the benefit of being in sub-zero weather. Only now did she know how much of an edge the cold took off from the smell.

“And make the Emperor wait?” Legato said.

“Yea, tha’ sounded like a better idea in my head,” she said. “Probably shoulda stayed there, too.”

A Sister of Battle approached them. She wore a helm, which probably meant that she was scrubbing the scent of death from the air before she breathed it. Maeva was burning with jealousy.

“The Emperor demands your presence,” the Sister said. “Follow me.”

Legato followed the Sister, but Maeva stepped ahead of him.

“Little Laura screamin’ any?” She whispered the code-phrase to the Sister.

“I beg your pardon?”  

Then Geist wasn’t disguised as the Sister.

“Wha’?” Maeva said, playing dumb.

“You said something.”

“I didn’t say anythin’,” Maeva said. “Maybe muttered somethin’ ‘bout th’ damn smell, but I didn’t say nothin’.”

“…It is quite bad, isn’t it?” The Sister agreed.

“Ya can smell it under tha’ helm of yers?”

“The air scrubbers are built to recycle air, not to rid it of smell. It helps, but…”

“Fekke.”

“Fuck,” the Sister agreed.

The smell only grew worse as they walked towards the Throne Room. More and more dead bodies were being carted away, and teams of tech-priests were lighting horrifying amounts of incense to try and cover the smell. Maeva wrinkled her nose; it only made it worse by drawing attention to the smell of dead bodies.

Eventually, they made their way to the Throne Room, where the smell seemed to abate a little. Custodes helped the body-stealing Emperor remove prayer papers and seals that were put up all around the room.

“—mess,” the body-stealer grumbled out loud. “Seriously, I leave the Palace for a standard damn month, and they find a way to screw everything up again…”

Maeva looked around the room. The Emperor’s original body sat on the Throne, silent as ever. Every so often, she’d catch the barest hint of motion; an organ pulsing, or a tube convulsing as fluid was dripped into the carcass.

The Throne Room was bustling with activity as everyone tried to keep up with whatever queer demands the Emperor gave them. Custodes and tech-priests worked feverously, even the Primarch Lion was helping, but she saw Aevar, Helfist, Croan and even Lynia sitting off to the side. Aevar and Helfist passed a canteen between them; if she had to guess, it was mjod. She blinked as she saw Croan took the flask.

“Hold on,” she said, walking up. “Am I seein’ thin’s, or is Croan drinkin’ now?”

“I figured it was as good a time to start,” the Salamander said. He took a quick pull, and grimaced. “Although I will most likely stop; this needs a truly acquired taste to enjoy.”

“Good thing we Vlka got the taste for it,” Helfist chuckled darkly as he took the canteen from Croan. Vermund pulled a separate canteen from his pocked and gave it to Lynia, who took a long pull.

“Wait, yer fekkin’ drinkin’ now?” Maeva demanded. “Mjod hits us mortal like ground glass, yea? Ya can’t go drinkin’ tha’.”

“I had a thing of Fenrisian spirits,” Helfist said. “She needed it more than I did.”

“Thought ya took a vow of dry-ness.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘temperance,’” Lynia said, trying not to cough against the brutal spirits. “And if there was ever a time to break such a vow, it’ll be now.”

“Was it as bad as it looked?” Legato asked. “The battle?”

“Worse,” Aevar mumbled.

“By the…uh, by all that is good,” Legato stammered. Lynia handed him the flask. Legato grimaced as he drank.

“Yes, we can’t even curse like used to,” Lynia said.

Aevar squinted his eyes.

“Who let those two in?”

Maeva turned around. Julas and Parsef were escorted in by a small team of Custodes.

“Thought the Emperor would’ve wanted them locked up.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s better ta have ‘em close,” Maeva said. “Ya know, where he can see ‘em.”

“Something tells me that something bad is going to happen,” Legato said.

“Alright, you two,” the body-stealer said, pointing at Julas and Parsef. “You work for the Inquisition. Tell me what the fuck is going on right now.”

“I, I am sorry, Emperor, but I don’t know what the Inquisition was doing,” Parsef said, bowing politely.

“Bull-fuckin’-shit. They tried to put us down with at least two whole Guard regiments, tens of tank squadrons, and a dozen assassins,” the Emperor spat. “That’s serious damned firepower there. Not to mention they turned a whole damned fleet against us.”

“I can verify the Inquisitor’s claim,” Julas said. “I spent nearly every moment since your awakening with him. The Inquisition gave no warning to him about the events that transpired.”

“I still call bullshit,” the Emperor said. “They turned the damned High Lords against me, and the what-you-call-‘em that lead the priests.”

“The Ecclesiarchy.”

“Yea, them. I don’t like being worshipped, but saying that I’m a damned usurper? That either takes titanic balls or a horrifying amount of ignorance. Speaking of which, where’s the woman that leads the Sisters?”

Maeva looked at Lynia. So did Aevar, Helfist, Croan, and about half a dozen Custodes and damn near every Sister of Battle in the room. Groaning, the old woman passed the canteen to Maeva and stood up. Maeva took a quick nip and scanned the room for Geist.

“Against my wishes, my Sisters have placed me in charge,” Lynia said.

“Probably means you’re really good at what you do,” the Emperor said.

“I humbly believe that there is nothing special with what I do.”

“Duly noted,” the Emperor laughed. “I heard you’re joined at the hip with the Ecclesiarchy. If they called us traitors, why the fuck are you here?”

“We are the Sisters of Battle,” Lynia said. “We are the chosen, to fight in your name. We…we _used_ to worship you as a god; hearing that you denied any divinity…it broke us. Our faith was our shield, our sword, our armor, it was everything to us. A Sister without faith is simply unheard of.”

“All the more reason to find it damned strange you’re here and not with the Ecclesiarchy,” the Emperor said.

“That’s because we don’t take orders from the Ecclesiarchy; we take orders from you. With you sat upon the Throne, we had to rely on the Ecclesiarchy for interpretations of your holy—er, your eternal will.”

“Good catch,” the Emperor said. “I’ll let it slide.”

“My thanks. You are the Master of Mankind; not even the heretics can deny it. Before we set upon Cadia to help drive the traitors back, we asked to see you, so that many of our sisters would see you, and hear your will.”

“Oh yea, my little side-trip to your ship.”

“Exactly. We saw you, and we saw what you were. We knew that you commanded us to relinquish our faith. Our faith…it had moved mountains. Turned back killing blows, and spelled death to our enemies. We would never give it up. But to hear you, the Master of Mankind, tell us to give up our faith…there is no one else whom we would follow.”

“Oh, I get it,” the Emperor grinned. “The greatest act of faith is relinquishing one’s faith.”

“And only _you_ can inspire such faith,” Lynia said. “That is why we had to see you, so we would know your will.”

“Damn. Mad props.”

“Thank you,” Lynia said. “The process hasn’t been flawless, however. Many sisters still hold you in their hearts as the God-Emperor of Mankind. The change will take time.”

“As long as there’s improvement, I’m a happy camper,” the Emperor said. “Now, where was I? Right, the Inquisition pricks!”

“Sire, we knew nothing of the Inquisition’s intentions,” Parsef pleaded. “Nor of the High Lords!”

“I believe you.”

“You…you do?” Parsef said.

“Uh, yea, I can read your mind,” the Emperor said. “Comes from being a psyker. I’m pretty sure they left you high and dry as a patsy. Maybe buy them a little bit more time to do whatever the crap they’re doing.”

“Forgive me, sire,” Julas said, “but if you could read their minds, how did things come to this?”

“Because it’s not a passive ability. I have to actually _try_ to read someone’s mind, and if you didn’t notice, I was a little busy with this damn Crusade,” the Emperor spat. “Fuck, _everyone’s_ a backseat driver…”

_Canoness Lynia, come in,_ a vox crackled. Lynia sighed and picked up the receiver from her pocket. Her face drained of color.

“Sire, we have received word from Mars,” she said. “The Imperial Navy has placed them under siege!”

“What?” Legato yelped.

“Sire, the Imperial Navy has dozens of ships in Mars’ orbit,” Croan said. “If they have sided with the Ecclisarchy, they could destroy much of Mars’ might, possibly the planet itself.”

“Yea, I know,” the Emperor said. “But Mars is armed to the teeth. They probably got some defenses going.”

“We can’t let Mars fall!” Aevar said.

“Never said we weren’t,” the Emperor said. “Lynia, order your fleet to help break the siege. The Mechanicus has probably put the hurt on ‘em, but we can’t leave ‘em high and dry.”

“As you order,” Lynia bowed. She excused herself as she went back to the vox to relay the orders.

“And can someone tell me why it was so easy to take my Throne back?” The Emperor demanded. “Seriously, this place held out against Horus. How come it was so easy for us?”

“Sire.” Kemuel stepped forward. “We have only begun talking with our brothers whom you left to guard the Palace, but the treason of the High Lords was not complete. They knew they would never be able to corrupt a Custode, and had planned to massacre as many of our brothers as they could before your arrival.

“They would have succeeded, too, if it were not for a group of loyal Guards. These men and women sacrificed themselves to warn the Custodes, and they were able to mount a defense to keep the full defensive measures from being activated.”

“Fucking shit, there are some serious badasses here,” the Emperor said. “Build a damn monument to them.”

“Sire,” another Custode said, stepping forward.

“Ugh, what now?”

“The High Lords are broadcasting a message,” he said. “It is to be played at all Imperial worlds. We have just received it from the few remaining Astropaths; the Master of the Astronomican has absconded with the rest of the High Lords.”

“Well, play it.”

“Sire, it is dire news.”

“Just fucking play it!”

The Custode lead a thin man forwards. A servo-skull followed him, and his eyes were sewn shut.  Maeva made the ward of aversion on her neck; the man was a psyker. He placed a memory-chip into a servo-skull. Its holographic projector warmed up, and projected an image of a regal looking man.

“I speak with the authority of the High Lords of Terra,” the man said. “I speak to the entirety of the Imperium of Man. Bear my words, for sinister forces conspire against the Emperor.”

“ _What_ fucking forces?” The Emperor demanded.

“A clone, a genetic monstrosity, has laid claim to the Golden Throne,” the man continued. “It has usurped the Emperor’s holy power, and is using them for its own twisted end. It has claimed that the Emperor is not a god; it spews nothing but lies and vile heresy, and seeks to deny us our place in the heavens. The High Lords of Terra cannot let such a monster stand; the Emperor protects His subjects, and He will smite the imposter from the pages of history.

“The Ecclesiarchy has deemed this imposter a false god, one that seeks to turn all from the Light of the Emperor. By their holy order, the strange being masquerading as the Emperor is hereby declared a traitor and foul usurper, as are all who stand with it. They are all guilty of the same crime.

“The creature has captured Holy Terra, and it must be returned to proper hands. The High Lords have asked the Ultramarines for their assistance in this Crusade, and call to any and all truly loyal servants to flock to their banner at Macragge and declare their undying loyalty to the High Lords. Those who don’t will be considered in league with the Usurper, and will die a traitor’s death. May we crush this abomination and return the rule of the Emperor and the Imperial Cult to the stars.”

The servo-skull winked off and floated back to the psyker. The entire Throne Room was quiet. Maeva even forgot about the smell.

“What. The. Fuck,” the Emperor spat.

“This can’t be fucking happening,” Helfist said. “The High Lords just called all of us damned traitors.”

“What the High Lords say will be the truth to many Imperial worlds,” Croan said. “Perhaps to _every_ world. And if they have the Ecclesiarchy, every Shrine World will follow them to the end of the galaxy.”

“Frost’s balls, this explains why the damned fleet fired on us,” Helfist said. “Why the Guards here fought so—“

Maeva turned to Helfist. He stopped so suddenly, it was like he just froze in midair. The astropath froze, too, but only for a second.

Both Helfist and the astropath collapsed, screaming in agony. Lion suddenly had his sword in hand, moving with the Custodes towards the Empress as she rocked on her feet, trying to stay upright.

“To the Emperor,” the Custodes yelled. “What is the source of this madness?”

“ _Voice,_ ” Helfist ranted from the ground. Maeva realized he was talking at the exact same time as the astropath was, saying the exact same words. Their voices compounded as they spoke simultaneously.

_“Voice of the dark one! The dark god speaks! The dark god laughs!”_

“Helfist, hold in there.” Aevar and Croan jumped to the Rune Priest. They held him down as he thrashed in pain.

“Laughter,” the astropath hissed. “He’s laughing at us!”

“Laughter?” Maeva demanded. “Who th’ fuck is laughin’? What ‘r they laughin’ ‘bout?”

“Just one thing over and over again,” the Emperor said, wiping away her bloody nose.

“’Just as planned.’”


	39. Empire's End

Laura’s head hurt. Navigating the mind of the Emperor, or whatever the fuck she was in, was difficult, often overlapping with painful. She had no idea where she was, or how to accurately move about. She followed threads of emotions, thoughts and the random blip of memory.

She had seen much. So much more than what anyone in the Imperium has seen. If Parsef was here, he would argue that she was seeing more than she should _ever_ be able to see.

She had seen various stages of humanity’s birth; their rise from the plains and steppes of Terra, their early fumbling with warp technology and the catastrophe of the first space hulk the _Event Horizon_ , the rapid growth that was the Golden Age of Man, and their bloody fall at the hands of the Iron Men at the Age of Strife.

To say that she had gotten to know the Emperor was an understatement. She might not be sharing his conscious mind, but she had his plethora if inner voices to learn from. No, not inner voices, but rather his own voice self-editing his memories; adding verbal footnotes to what he’d seen and done.

And all the while, she never found a way to get out of his damned mind. She could feel her sanity being bled dry by the ever-present inner voices of the Emperor, wandering around this bizarre labyrinth.

Now Laura was looking at a memory of the Emperor meeting Horus the Arch-Traitor when the thought hit her.

What if she was already insane?

Each and every second she had to pull meaning from the cacophony of voices. She had to do it for the days/weeks/months/years/decades/centuries/millennia that she’s been here. With no clock to look at, she had no idea how much time had passed. She had witnessed entire millennia pass by; she had seen human empires raise and fall.

Laura fell to the ‘ground,’ suddenly impossibly tired. She had to get out. She had to get to her mom…what did she look like?

Her mother was a woman whose face she couldn’t remember. No, that was the Emperor’s; she had seen her in the memory of the steppes. She was raised on Fenris. No, her mother was. Or was it Krieg?

Laura realized that she had no idea where her memories ended and where the Emperor’s began. She also realized that she hadn’t spoken in over twenty millennia.

Or was it minutes? It was so hard to know what time it was in this damned place.

As she was curled up on the ‘ground,’ the world seemed to shake. A white-hot fury punched through her. She had felt such anger before, when humanity first fell from the Iron Men that ushered in the Dark Age of Technology, and when Horus turned on her.

But this rage was more than white-hot; it was no mere memory. It was happening again, another great turn in the history of humanity. And with that rage, she felt the landscape shift. The Emperor was doing something, and it required all of his concentration.

Laura had felt that once before, when the Emperor did something with the Golden Throne. And she was able to free herself from this damned prison. She had to try again, she had to get free.

Marshalling whatever strength she had left, she mentally reached out, feeling for a weak point, a lapse in the Emperor’s will that she could exploit. She found none, but knew that it would only be a matter of time until she found it.

 

* * *

 

Maeva stole a glance at the Emperor. He sat at the base of the Golden Throne in her little girl’s body, meditating. Or something like it; he sat at the steps, legs crossed and eyes closed. She could feel…something, but she didn’t know quite what it was. It probably meant that the Emperor was doing something in the warp. There wasn’t anyone else in the Throne Room aside from the Custodes and their group.

“Hey, you paying attention?” Aevar said.

“Wha’? Oh, yea, we gotta re-take Mars ‘n help ‘em out,” she said.

“To even hear that Mars has been put under siege is troubling enough,” Legato said. “The last time a threat ever came to Mars itself was during the Heresy. Do you think the Lion knows that?”

“How couldn’t he?” Helfist said. He had two massive wads of gauze stuck up his nose to help control the bleeding he had when that dark whatever laughed in the warp. “I kinda feel bad for him; the last Primarch to stick around, and now he’s being tasked with liberating Mars. Bet he’s gonna be in his war room for a good long while.”

“You think this is what they felt during the Heresy?” Legato asked.

“I can think of no other time the Imperium came to blows with itself on such a scale,” Croan said. “It was when brother first fought brother.”

“Don’t remind me,” Aevar said. He looked over his shoulder. “Let’s get another opinion. Hey, Julas, come here.”

“The Wolf wants an Ultramarine?” Croan chuckled tightly. It was the kind of laugh someone gives when they want to get rid of stress, not because it was funny.

“Think we’re a little passed the point where we can bitch about each other’s Chapters,” Aevar said. “But yea, the Wolf is asking for the fucking Ultra-smurf. You happy?”

“Can anyone be happy in a situation like this?”

“So tha’s a ‘no’ then, yea?”

Julas walked up. He seemed…gaunt. Far more than his usual tired, worn-out self. He was clearly shaken to the core; the High Lord’s message had clearly had a bigger impact on him than anyone else would have thought.  Then again, it sounded like the High Lords have chosen to turn with the Ultramarines. No wonder Custodes escorted him; he was potentially the only Ultramarine on the planet. Shit, probably the sector.

“We need your take on this,” Aevar said. “We’re thinking that this is the biggest shake-up since the Heresy.”

“This is nothing short of a second Heresy,” Julas said darkly. “I knew the High Lords did not…approve of the Emperor’s awakening. No, not his awakening, of his plans and actions. Of…of what he called the Imperial Cult and the Lectitio Divinitatus. But you knew about that, didn’t you, Blasphemer?”

“Aevar? Know about that? How could he?” Legato said.

“Aye, I knew about it.”

Legato and Croan stared at Aevar. Maeva took a second to look around the room for Geist. Maybe the assassin would try to catch her eye.

“You knew?” Croan gasped.

“Must be an echo in here,” Aevar mumbled. “What do you think sent me to the Grey Knights and Inquisition when I was working on the Throne? Why do you think they exiled my ass to a Shrine World? I found something I shouldn’t have, and I paid the price for it.”

“And you knew,” the Salamander said, looking at Helfist and Maeva. “The both of you, you all knew.”

“How couldn’t we?” Helfist said. “You have any idea how many fucking alarms greybeard here set off when he made his first set of Cataphractii armor? The way I hear it, you can only make Terminator armor work with a small piece of the Allfather’s armor. But not his. His worked without it.”

“And I still can’t figure out why,” he said. “You’d think that with nearly thirty years, I’d come up with something, right?”

“Why have you not?” Julas pressed. “You are the Blasphemer, the one who can divine the origins of secrets kept since the Dark Age of Technology. Why have you not lived up to your name?”

“I have. I made all the damn armor everyone wants, didn’t I?” Aevar said. “When I was first sent to Dimmimar, I found out real quick that I couldn’t focus too much on what I was doing. The more I tried, the worse it got. Like I was trying to grab water. I had to forget everything that was taught to be, and just do things, mashed shit together, and fuck, it all worked.”

“And you say you aren’t truly blessed,” Legato said.

“If you say I am.”

“All while knowing this ‘Truth.’ No wonder the Inquisition wanted you dead,” Julas said.

“That and for some other reasons, I’m sure.”

“You’ve been with Parsef for a few hours now,” Helfist said. “And you seem to be talking up a storm with the Custodes. What’s going on with your Chapter?”

“The Ultramarines have clearly decided to ally themselves with the High Lords,” Julas said. “Whether they have been lied to or are…are truly treasonous remains to be seen.”

“This has been bothering me for a very long time,” Croan said. “Ever since Kemuel and his Custode brothers have joined us on Dimmimar, you have referred to your Chapter in the third person. ‘The Ultramarines’ this, and ‘they have decided’ that. When you first joined us, you would not hesitate to extol their virtues; and in the first person. Why the change?”

Julas stopped. He stared at Croan, and if Maeva didn’t know any better, the look in his eyes was painful.

“I,” he said, “I am no longer an Ultramarine.”

“Bullshit ya aren’t,” Maeva said.

“Do you remember the battle of Dimmimar?” He said. “The traitor leading the charge? The one who ascended to daemonhood?”

“Said his name was Onairam, wasn’t it?” Helfist said.

“Yes,” Julas said. “He was a former brother.”

“They’re all former brothers,” Aevar said.

“No, he was a true brother of mine,” Julas said. “We spent decades fighting in the same squad.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Indeed. He turned from the Emperor’s light; he was the second one in my squad to do so.”

“Twice?” Helfist said. “Shit, _that’s_ a bad fucking sign.”

“It is. Which is why it was decided that my squad would not be re-created, out of respect for the dead and the shame of the living. I was without a squad.”

“So that’s why you decided to stay with us,” Aevar said. “They don’t have to send anyone else to swap you out. They pretend like you don’t exist anymore.”

“Exactly.”

“Shit. Now I feel like a dick for making fun of you all those years.”

“I do not need your damned sympathy, wolf,” Julas spat.

“Then fuck you, too, smurf.”

Julas actually smiled at that.

“So if th’ High Lords took yer Chapter, where ya think this leaves us?” Maeva asked.

“Up shit’s creek,” Helfist said. “If there’s a face to the Angels of Death, it’s the Ultramarines. They’ll probably take a lot of Chapters with them.”

“I can attest that many, if not all, of the Ultramarine Successor Chapters would follow them,” Julas said. “But that is because I am familiar with them, and how they operate. The other First Founding Chapters are a mystery. Aside from the Space Wolves, that is. If the High Lords asked them to do anything, they would immediately do the opposite.”

“Damned right,” Aevar and Helfist laughed.

“Then if the wolves spit in the face of the High Lords, many of the other more radical Chapters will join them,” Julas said.

“I can assure you that the Salamanders would not follow the High Lords,” Croan said. “Much like the wolves, we enjoy our freedom from the yoke of the Lords.”

“I would also hazard a guess that the White Scars would also spit at the High Lords,” Julas said. “They are as…unique as the Wolves.”

“Tha’s one way ta call it, yea?”

“Then my opinion would be that the Ultramarines would be the first of the First Founding Chapters of whom would join the High Lords. That means, of course, that any Chapter tracing their gene-lineage back to Guilliman would join them as well. And that is only the Space Marines, not the actual planets.”

“If we want to talk about the number of worlds that would follow the High Lords,” Croan said, “it would be easier to think of the world that _would not_ follow them. It would also explain why the Emperor yelled that he had to ‘do every fucking thing his damned self.’ He must be taking over the duties of the Astropaths.”

“Finding out the loyalty of every Imperial outpost would be the recommended action,” Julas said. “Once we find out how we stand, we can then take action.”

“Ya mean against all th’ people who went with th’ High Lords?” Maeva asked. “Ya mean th’ Emperor is tryin’ ta talk to every single damned world we got?”

“I can probably save him the trouble,” Aevar said. “If the Ecclesiarchy put the word against us…well, we’re fucked. Good, raw, and bloody.”

A loud gasp went up from the Throne. Maeva jumped; it was her girl, she knew it was.

“To the Emperor,” the Custodes yelled.

The Emperor, no, her girl, was gasping for air, pawing for something to hold onto. A Custode beat Maeva to the Emperor. No, it wasn’t just a random Custode, it was Kemuel. Maeva was glad one of her Uncles was there for her.

“We are here for you,” Kemuel said.

It was her girl, she could tell. The strange light in the Emperor’s eyes was gone; the mad drive, the insane thoughts. No, the only thing in her girl’s eyes was shock and terror, the look of someone who’d been adrift at sea for too long.

Laura opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Like she was trying to remember how to speak. Her mouth just opened and closed, like a fish out of water. The Custodes formed a perimeter around the Throne, but Aevar, Helfist and Croan tried to push their way through. Maeva was behind them, and was nearly crushed when the Custodes turned them away.

She slipped under the mass of superhuman limbs, a tiny woman among giants. The next line of Custodes brought their spears to bear.

“No, let her approach,” Kemuel said. “She was close to the host of the Emperor.”

Grudgingly, the Custodes let her in. She ran to her girl, but Kemuel held her at arm’s length.

“Remember last time,” he said. Maeva looked at her new cybernetic arm. Laura had ripped it off with so little effort.

_“Laura, please,”_ she said in Juvik, the first language she taught Laura. _“It’s me, it’s momma. Breathe, baby, please breathe.”_

Laura locked eyes with her, and the look of recognition lit up her face. She took a deep breath, and looked her dead in the eyes.

“Mom?”

_“I’m here, girl,”_ Maeva said, tears in her eyes.

“Take it easy,” Kemuel said. “You are in the Throne Room.”

“There was laughter,” Laura stammered. “Was there laughter? Did I imagine that?”

“No, many psykers reported hearing laughter in the warp,” Kemuel said. “Many others seemed to have died from it.”

“Laughter, alright,” Helfist yelled. He was being restrained by two Custodes. “Some damned chaos god thinks he pranked us.”

“Prank?” Laura laughed. Maeva gasped. The look in her girl’s eyes…she had seen a similar look on madman in her tribe. “ _Prank?_ You think this is a fucking prank?! No, this is a plan, and we fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Laura, please…”

“Do you know what happened?” Suddenly Laura was on her feet. “Any idea at all? _Any_ of you?”

“The High Lords turned on us,” Kemuel said.

“That wasn’t the question, Uncle Kemuel,” Laura snapped. “Don’t you see? Don’t you know what the Emperor’s goal was all along? What the reason for the Great Crusade was?

“I know! I know, because I’m stuck in this damned head with a fucking god! Do you know what it’s like to share the same head with someone who’s been alive for dozens of millennia? Do you? I know his plans, and I know why they’re ruined.”

“What do you mean, ‘his plans are ruined?’” Legato asked.

“Do you know how the warp bleeds over to the universe?” Laura said, advancing on Legato. Custodes immediately placed themselves between her and Legato. Maeva tried to follow, but Kemuel kept her away, wary of having her crushed. “Do you?”

“For psykers, it is the mutant gene,” Helfist said.

“No, no, no! That just makes it easier! That gives it a doorway, but do you know why it bleeds over? It’s faith!” She spat. “Faith and emotions! The belief that they are part of something greater, that something is out there with more power than you, and every little scrap of what you feel. That makes every sort of thing possible. It’s why gunfire can be turned away at the last second or a round miraculously hits its target, or why ork shit works. Faith pushes at the fabric of the universe, and lets chaos in. Get it?”

If Aevar didn’t get it, no one else would. And from the look on Aevar’s face, he certainly didn’t get it.

“That’s why the Great Crusade was so anti-religion,” Laura continued ranting. “Don’t you find it strange that the Emperor didn’t spread his worship throughout the stars the first time around? It had to come after the Crusades, when the ‘Emperor’ couldn’t stop it. Any belief, any religion brings the warp in. That’s why he wrote the Truth! That only science would save humanity. That’s why he went to work with the webway and left Horus to lead the Crusades.”

“The webway?” Legato asked.

“It’s what the damned Eldar use,” she gasped. “They can’t use the warp, or they’ll get fucking eaten! They use the webway, which is different! It’s warp travel without using the warp.

“Do you know what this has done?” She pressed. “The Emperor wanted to break things up, change the order of the Imperium. But the Imperium had spent the last nine millennia not changing. You know how hard it is to change something that’s used to not changing? Everything is too fucking calcified. He ended up breaking the Imperium, making the High Lords run away.

“And what have the High Lords created when they ran away? They created a place for faith to flourish. That’s why the Emperor wanted to outlaw all religion, so the daemons in the warp wouldn’t be able to break into this reality.”

“Is there any other way to keep the immaterium out of the galaxy?” Aevar asked.

“Not a single fucking thing,” Laura said. “That’s why the Emperor hated all religion. That’s why he doesn’t let anyone pray. That’s why worship is outlawed. You getting it now?”

“The High Lords escaped with the Ecclesiarchy,” Aevar gasped. “If they keep the Ecclesiarchy alive, they keep faith alive.”

“And with faith, chaos will get into this universe, and chaos _will_ win,” Laura said. “You get how fucked we are?”

“Chaos can never win,” Julas said. “We hold the line at every turn.”

“And how has that been going for the past ten millennia?” Laura laughed. “This is a holding pattern, not something to win. With an eternal supply of faith, chaos will eventually win. All they need is one good win, and we’re fucking _done._ ”

The Custodes traded looks, suddenly unsure of themselves.

“This is just like the War Within the Webway,” Kemuel growled. “We fight endlessly, sacrifice everything, just to retreat an inch instead of a foot. We fight until our very sinews give out, just to die another day.”

“Exactly! You get it now?” Laura said. “You get why we can’t win? We’ll have to destroy every planet the Imperium is on.”

Laura didn’t need to say it; there were countless Imperium worlds in the galaxy.

“That’s what all of this was,” her mad daughter ranted. “It was to get us in a position where we can’t win. They’ll win eventually; humanity will become like the Eldar. Everyone will be a psyker, and we’ll all be fucking food to the dark gods.”

“Humanity can never become a race of all psykers,” Legato said.

“Anyone know how many psykers are in the Imperium?” Laura said. “How much of a percentage of all of the damn humans in the galaxy?”

“It has been known for some time now that psykers are a growing mutation of the human genome,” Kemuel said. “It has caused the High Lords and the Ecclesiarchy great distress.”

“See? Eventually, every human will become a psyker, and then we power fuck another god into existence,” Laura said. “And chaos wins. This is just what they wanted, just what they planned on happening. They even planned you and me.

“You, you made me, and you played right into their hands,” she spat at Aevar. “Some fucking dad you are. I’m just something you made that got twisted and used against you. And now I’m here, filled with this… this _malice,_ with this damned god in my head that’s driving me fucking mad!”

“The Emperor isn’t a god,” Aevar stammered. “He said he wasn’t.”

“Then ask your fucking precious Emperor who Malal is,” she spat. Laura cried out, falling to her knees. The Custodes were at her side in a second. “You’ll get the chance to, he doesn’t like lying now. Fucking shit, how many damned places won’t answer the fucking phone?”

The person who stood up wasn’t her little girl; it was the Emperor again.

“Huh, when did I get up and walk around?” Formerly Laura said, looking back at the Throne. “Eh, whatever. I got some kind of starting point. Those High Lords fucked us, but we got a little hope left.”

“Sire,” Aevar said. “Who is Malal?”

“Sorry?”

“Malal,” Maeva said. “Who’s he?”

“Where did you hear that name?” The Emperor asked.

“My daugh…someone close to me,” Aevar said.

“Your friend has a weird taste in names,” the Emperor said. “Anyways, I got a list of Space Marine Chapters who’ll—“

“Who is Malal?” Aevar snapped.

“You’re awfully chatty all of a sudden.”

“You _know_ who Malal is,” Helfist said. There was a hard edge to his voice; he was accusing the Emperor. The Custodes bristled at the tone Helfist took with them.

“What’s up with all the assumptions?” The Emperor groaned, rolling her stolen eyes. “Just let it go. There’s no need to worry about Malal.”

“Tell us who th’ fuck Malal is,” Maeva spat.

Formerly Laura turned to look at her.

And smiled.

“The greatest trick Malal ever pulled was convincing the universe he didn’t exist.”

“Wha’?”

“I told you, don’t worry about it, we got more pressing concerns to deal with,” the Empress said. The doors to the Throne Room were opened, and Lynia entered.

“Sire,” she said. “Ships have dropped from the warp.”

“Thought I felt something.”

“They are Ultramarine ships,” Lynia said. “But they do not bring war. They are heavily damaged, and are requesting permission to join us.”

“That’s damn strange,” the Emperor said. “Who are they?”

“The Second Company. Captain Titus is their leader. They say that they brought the final word of Guilliman to the rest of the Ultramarines, but they…they rejected it. Called it heresy, and tried to kill them.”

“Well, that must mean they don’t like the High Lords any more than we do.”

“They claim to not hold the High Lords in very high standard,” Lynia said. “They say the High Lords is what lead to their fall from grace.”

“If it is Titus, I would like to speak to him,” Julas said. “In the past, he was my Captain. He might be willing to share more information with me.”

“Take ‘em,” the Emperor said. “If we can get any kind of Ultramarine on our side, all the better.”

Julas bowed and left with Lynia, a Custode guard following him closely. Maeva turned to the Emperor, but held her tongue.

“Well, quite an interesting turn of events. I went to my Space Marines first,” the body-snatcher said. “Most of ‘em are with us. But most of the Imperial worlds outside of Sol is siding with the High Lords. But not all of them! They’re making their own splinter kingdoms!”

“You mean there are worlds that are choosing to side with neither us, nor the High Lords?” Croan asked.

“Yup! Don’t get me wrong, it sucks, but that means we don’t have to fight a unified enemy,” the Empress said. “Humanity is splintering again, which means we can use the good ol’ ‘divide and conquer’ strategy. Worked well in Great Crusade 1.0, it’ll work in 2.0 as well. Besides, with the Navy and the High Lords laying siege to Mars, that got the Mechanicus pissed off, off the fence, and brought ‘em to our side. The way things were going, they might’ve stayed neutral, or even turned on us.

“But, the High Lords wanted everything and a bag of chips, and that got the Mechanicus pissed off and on our side! That gives us the entire Mechanicus, which is good because we need their toys, but we don’t have the people to play with them. Which is fucking great, because that really fucked me over.”

“What did?”

“That prank that Tzeentch pulled,” the Emperor said. “Getting me off the Throne, but taking my Imperium away. It was like he—“

The Empress stopped mid-syllable. For the fourth time since he rose from the Throne, the Emperor was dead quiet. Fifteen seconds passed with everyone looking at the Emperor, waiting for her to move. But she was frozen in place, eyes wide as if she discovered some lost relic.

“…Sire?” Kemuel asked.

“I get it,” the Emperor slowly smiled, looking at Aevar. “I finally get it!”

“Where did that servitor come from?” A Custode asked.

All eyes broke from the Emperor. Maeva found a rogue servitor, opening a panel on the ground. It was the panel she had marked.

“Geist,” she gasped.

“Stop,” the Custodes bellowed. “In the name of the Emperor!”

They started sprinting towards the servitor, towards Geist, but she pulled the grenade and stuck it into the panel of the floor.

It exploded, and suddenly it was like being in a sea storm.

The Emperor was screaming, raw power leaking from her little girl’s body. It was so powerful, it threw everyone aside like a rag doll. Kemuel wrapped Maeva in his arms to save her from being battered around; Maeva saw Croan doing the same to Legato. They were pushed, nearly thrown across the Throne Room.

It was like when her little girl was first possessed by the Emperor. There was hurricane-like wind in the Throne Room, and her little girl was in the middle of it. Raw power spilled from her eyes, nose, mouth, ears, it was coming out of her by any means possible.

Just like the first time, it started immediately. And just like the first time, it ended just as suddenly.

Her girl snapped her mouth shut, closed her eyes, and covered her ears. The raw power stopped, as did the hurricane. The Custodes were on their feet first, moving towards Geist. Her disguise was blown away by the wyrd hurricane the psyk-out grenade caused, reverting her back to her black catsuit. Seeing the advancing Custodes, she drew her wrist-mounted sword. It wouldn’t help; they were going to kill her.

“Stop.”

The Custodes halted, just as they were about to bring their swords and spears down on Geist.

“Bring both of them here.”

They failed. It was the Empress that pointed at her.

Custodes grabbed her from Kemuel’s grasp and hauled her over to Geist and Formerly Laura. She was forced to her knees.

“I gotta give credit where credit is due,” Formerly Laura said, strangely unperturbed by the shock of the grenade and the raw hurricane it kicked up. “There has never been an attempt on my life in this Throne Room. And I have to say, it hurt. But come on, I sat on top of an Eye of Terror for ten millennia. You think a little peril will stop me?”

“We were not trying to kill you,” Geist spat. “We were trying to get our girl back.”

“Sire, these traitors must be dealt with,” a Custode said.

“Traitors, yes. But not these two.”

“They just tried to kill you,” the Custode pleaded.

“Please,” the Emperor snorted. “You think you’re the only parents who miss their kids?”

“Sire, you cannot let these two live.”

“I plan to,” the Emperor said. “They miss their girl, and I miss my sons. Roboute, Ferrus, shit, I even miss Fulgrim. I let them down, and they ended up dead. We’re not that different.”

“An example must be made!” The Custode said.

The Emperor smiled gently. There was genuine concern on her face. Maeva looked at Geist. They failed, but maybe they could try again.

“I have an example for them,” the Emperor said. She knelt down close to Maeva, genuine pain in her eyes. “They’re parents who miss their girl; I won’t kill them. But I will exile them from Terra. Put them in a ship and send ‘em where they want to go. I won’t be punishing parents who miss their girl.”

“…As you order.”

Then a voice spoke, but not a regular voice. It wasn’t even in her daughter’s own voice. Maeva recognized it as the voice of the Emperor; it psyckically spoke her he, and from Geist’s reaction, the Emperor was whispering to her as well, directly into both of their brains.

Besides, death is too quick, the Emperor said. The sad smile turned into one full of malice. I want you to know that I took your girl, and there’s nothing you can do to get her back.

Maeva howled and launched herself at the Emperor, but the Cutodes held her fast. She thrashed and kicked, but she might as well have tried spitting in the wind for all the good it did her. Maeva wasn’t the only one yelling and cursing.

“Give her back,” Geist yelled. “She’s my life! Give her back!”

Maeva was less elegant than her lover.

_“You bastard! You worm!”_ She yelled in Juvik. _“May the Dread Wolf eat you and shit you out on the banks of the Lethe!!”_

The Custodes roughly pulled her and her away. Everyone was staring at them; Aevar and Helfist paled at the insults she threw at the Emperor. With everyone looking at them, no one saw the Emperor smugly smiling at them. The door to the Throne Room began closing.

“Now, where were we?” Formerly Laura said cheerfully, turning her attention back to Aevar.

 

* * *

 

“Captain Titus, this is Julas, former member of your Second Company.”

The vox channel was unobstructed, but Titus barely came through at all. His image on the holographic bank was horribly distorted; if the channel was not being blocked, it meant that Titus’ ships were heavily damaged.

_I remember you,_ Titus said. Julas had to pay close attention to pick everything up. _It is good to see you. Is that a Sister of Battle I see with you?_

“It is,” Lynia said. “I am Canoness-Preceptor Lynia, of the Valorous Heart.”

_Do you ally with the Ecclesiarchy?_ Julas demanded.

“Hold your wrath, Captain,” Lynia said. “My sisters and I stand with the Emperor. We always have, and always will. The actions of the High Lords and the Ecclesiarchy will tear the Imperium apart, and we want no part in their plans.”

_My apologies for my lack of grace,_ Titus said _. We have had a very trying ordeal._

“None taken, Captain. The High Lords threw everything into disarray,” Lynia said. “Your ships are showing as incredibly damaged. What is your status?”

_It is as you see, Canoness. My ships have somehow decided not to shake themselves to pieces, but I do not know how much longer they will hold. The Ultramarines…like I said in my earlier message, they did not like the final lesson of Guilliman. If I was not the one to bring them the news, if someone else had stayed behind, maybe things would be different._

“What last lesson of Guilliman?” Julas asked.

_His last lesson was to disregard everything the Codex Astartes taught us,_ Titus said.

“I beg your pardon?”

_The Codex Astartes, the combat maneuvers listed in them, were to be used as_ examples, _not as verbatim stratagem. We must act for ourselves, to adapt to the changing tides of battle, not to blindly follow his writings._

“And Guilliman told you that?”

_I swear upon the Throne,_ Titus said. _But you know how set we are in our ways, how calcified we are. If I had not been the only one to convey the message, perhaps…_

“You are referring to your time spent in the care of the Inquisition, are you not?”

_I am. If they never suspected me as a latent traitor, maybe they would have listen to me._ Titus shook his head. On the glitch vox, it looked like his head was shorn itself off before rejoining. _But it has led us to where we are. My Company and I are still loyal to the Emperor, and wish to join him. Her._

“Pronouns matter little to the Emperor,” Lynia said. “And we are happy to have you.”

_My thanks. Julas, seeing as how we are all exiles, would you like to re-join us?_

“Captain, I cannot see how,” Julas said. “I have been out of combat for over twenty years.”

_And my Company is hurting. We need as many brothers as we can get._

“Surely you know the reason for my exile,” Julas said. “You might accept me, but will our brothers?”

_This…rejection has hurt us all. I doubt many will question your loyalty, or your ‘curse,’ when we have all been branded traitors._

“I see,” Julas said. “Captain, do you mean to build a new Chapter?”

Titus laughed.

_Maybe we shall,_ he said. _What good are we with half a Company? To truly help the Emperor, we will need to grow. It is a matter for the future; we need to rescue our ships, first. Even if we decide to form a new Chapter, we have been stripped of the Ultramarine name. We will need a new name._

“Captain, how can you be so cavalier in a time like this?”

_My apologies, but I am still not over the shock of being branded traitors,_ Titus said.

“’Oathsworn,’” Lynia said.

“’Oathsworn?’” Julas said.

“That shall be your new name,” the Sister said. “Like us Soriatas, you have sworn an oath. And you are keeping it.”

_That we are,_ Titus laughed. _What do you say, Julas? You can never be an Ultramarine again, but would you like to join us?_

“And be Oathsworn?” Julas said. “As long as I get a squad to join, I shall like that very much.”

_We will have to make it official once we have left our ship and made sure it will not fall to pieces on us,_ Titus said. _Welcome back, Julas._

Julas couldn’t help but smile. He was back where he belonged; in a Company, to be ordered to fight and die for the greater good of humanity. All the while, the Nightmare still ate at him.

 

_You think you are a hero; you are disposable. You are they puppet that fat, old men tug about. You dance to their tune, told when and where and how to die. You are simply a plastic piece on a board, to be move, used and thrown away._

 

But Julas felt comfortable being that disposable hero. It was what most fit him.

 

* * *

 

“Now, where were we?” The Emperor said cheerfully as Geist and Maeva were dragged off. The door to the Throne Room closed with a heavy thud. “Oh, right! I figured out what the fuck you were!”

“’What I am?’” Aevar said.

“Remember how I was always asking you what you were? Like that that strange glow you got was?”

“How could I forget?” Every time the Empress stared at him, he saw his little girl staring, and it made him know that he had to get her back. Why couldn’t Maeva come to him for help? She knew he would have done anything to get Laura back.

Then he remembered how many Custodes were always around him, how under guard he was. No, their attempt to get their girl back could only have been done by them; he would only undo it.

“Just saying that nerd’s name was able to get me to put the pieces together,” the Empress said.

“’That nerd?’” Helfist asked.

“Tzeentch. Fucking shit, keep up with me here,” the Empress groaned.

“Are we talking about why Aevar’s so good with the machine-spirit?” Legato asked.

“One, it’s not a spirit, but I made a deal with Mars a long time ago, so you get out of it,” the Emperor said. “And two, oh hell yea it does.

“What you have, Aevar, is something I’ve never seen in all my years alive, and I’ve been up and kicking for a fuck-long time. You, sir, have a bona fide, genuine, certified, real-deal, never-before-seen, one-of-a-kind, no-strings-attached Scot Free _blessing_.”

“Of course it is a blessing, he’s touched by the Omnissiah,” Croan said.

“One, it’s not the omni-messiah,’” the Emperor said. “And two, it’s not from that thing. It’s from Tzeentch!”

“From Tzeentch!” Aevar howled with laughter. “Our sworn enemy? The Lord of Change? Oh, spare me!”

“I’m dead fucking serious,” the Empress smiled.

“Then why haven’t I sprouted a dozen tentacles and feathers?” Aevar asked, flapping his arms. “Why am I not a mutant psyker?”

“He’s not even a druid,” Helfist laughed.

“One, ‘druid?’ That’s cute,” the Emperor said. “Two, like I said, I have never, _ever_ seen this before. It’s something brand spankin’ new.”

“Yea, and I shit gold, too!” Aevar bellowed.

“Have you ever built something, and you really didn’t know what you were doing?” The Emperor asked. “And despite everything, it just ended up working?”

Aevar’s laughter caught in his throat.

“What about your armor you made, the Cataphractii? Or the Paragon blades? How did you make those?”

He remembered when he was on Dimmimar, when they realized that they had nothing of value to keep the Inquisition from killing them.

_“I’m an idiot savant,” he had said. “I wave my hands, shit suddenly works, and I got no idea how it happened. I can’t teach that, that’s just having good luck.”_

“I, I had an idea, but I just threw shit against the wall and saw what stuck.”

“What about how you made this body?” Formerly Laura pressed.

“I…Legato and I built your gene-seed from the donated gene-seed of different Space Marine Chapters.

“And it never crossed your mind that that’s not how gene-seed works?”

“I—I have mentioned it,” Legato said. “But it worked none-the-less.”

“See?” the Emperor smiled. The Custodes around Aevar moved closer. He saw Kemuel at the front of the circle. Croan took an unconscious step back, while Helfist took a very conscious step back. “Something shouldn’t have been able to work, and yet it did.”

_“Those suits were me flying by the seat of my pants,” he had said, “and holy fuck, wouldn't you know it, it worked! And I’m supposed to teach people this shit! I’m just throwing crap together and it just works out. I’m no better than the damned Mechanicus, just blindly stumbling about.”_

“Now, I’m gonna go out on a limb, but you don’t really do any learning when you threw shit together. You just let things come to you, and you make your own plans. That sound right? Now how did it all start? You just did things, copied something that was done, and everything just worked out, right?”

Croan and Helfist were looking at him.

“Aye, I did.”

“That’s the blessing,” the Emperor said. “Tzeentch is the Chaos God of sorcery, evolution and change. But knowledge is also his domain. You were on Dimmimar, right? How many Chaos cults popped up there?”

He remembered fighting a chaos cult of Nurgle on Dimmimar, back when he first realized how much Laura meant to him.

_“Thank you for bringing this to our attention,” the Grey Knight said. “This is the third chaos cult that we have found this month.”_

“Too damn many.”

“And I bet that every single one of them was full of frustrated Mechanicus guys, amiright? They were trying to look for a patron to grant them a break through, but they never quite found Tzeentch, eh? Always someone else.”

No one said anything. The silence was the Emperor’s answer.

“Fantastic,” the Empress said. “And how was warp travel with you? Can anyone tell me how the warp is when he’s around? Anyone who’s rode with him longer than me?”

“It’s calm,” Helfist mumbled. “It’s always so damn calm, and we get through it way too damn fast.”

“Can’t have the Blessed die in a silly little warp accident, not when the warp is Tzeentch’s domain.”

The memory popped into Aevar’s head, of his talk with the Rogue Trader Agostina. Of how she laughed at him when he told her that he’d never spent more than three weeks in the warp.

_“Three?” Agostina laughed. “Lord Ironclaws, you’re spoiled rotten. Our trips last at least six or seven months.”_

He suddenly remembered Niklas, the Navigator, who said that the warp was pulling them along on tides and eddies too damn powerful for them to drop out of, or how the warp breaches were always being closed.

_“Something opened the Geller field, something big, something powerful,” Niklas said. “Looking at it was like feeling velvet; smooth and tempting and… and purple. It tore it open, and then something else closed it. Something even more powerful, something blue. It closed it. Why would it do that?”_

Or the daemonic incursions, the Pink Horrors that always seemed to help them.

Or of the Keeper of Secrets, and how it was the first to call him ‘the blessed.’

_He will usher in a new age!_ It had screamed. _A new age where humanity falls to new lows!_

Or of the Great Unclean one that nearly did him in on the very same voyage.

_“Tzeentch! Tzeentch, you traitor! You know the danger the Blessed possesses!” It had bellowed.  “Your plans for the Blessed will be ruined. All must end! It is ordained by Nurgle himself! You cannot fight it!”_

Or of the mad Luther.

_“The Blessed one walks!” Luther raved from his cage. “The Blessed one destroys! The Blessed one ruins!”_

Suddenly he felt very ill.

“But that doesn’t explain how he has ‘the blessings’ of Tzeentch,” Helfist spat. “If he has a blessing of a Dark God, then how can he walk about in the Aett? Shit, how can he walk about here, in the Throne Room? This place has protections to keep Chaos out!”

“Yes, but those protections are against the usual quote-unquote ‘blessings’ most daemons have,” Formerly Laura said. “Not _this_ kind of blessing. This doesn’t have any of the markers that I’m familiar with; this is a one-of-a-kind sort of thing! And if I can’t sense it, which I can’t, you bet your ass that there wouldn’t be a protection against it. Shit, the only reason I figured out where it came from was because it fits Tzeentch’s M.O. Had to work backwards to figure it out.”

“But all champions of chaos who get the blessings of the Lord of Change mutate,” Helfist said. “They grow tentacles, limbs, sprout feathers, shit like that! He’s perfectly healthy.”

“Aye, I am,” Aevar said. “My gene-seed went into Laur—that body you have.”

“You weren’t listening to me,” the Emperor said. “In most cases, you’re right. Tzeentch sorcerers play with magic. And magic _always_ comes with a price.”

“But he hasn’t—“

“But you haven’t been listening to me! I said that he has a blessing I haven’t seen before. You can play with magic and sorcery and the warp all you want; at some point, you have to pay the price.

“Sure, you can dance around it; beg, borrow, plead and steal to avoid it, or lie, cheat, steal or kill your way around it. Or you can be smart and study what the fuck you’re gonna do, maybe get some sacrifices to pay the price _for_ you, but when it comes down to it, the hangman _always_ gets his dues.

“Aevar here has a completely free, no strings attached blessing. No strings! Nothing! Tzeentch wrote you a blank check and had you go crazy with it! When was the last time you heard voices?”

“Voices? Like in my head?” Aevar stammered. “Never.”

“Have you felt anything changing in you? Itchy skin, restless leg syndrome, eye color changing any?”

“What the fuck do you take me for?”

“Those are all signs of chaos having its way with you, of paying the hangman’s due. But you don’t get that! Don’t you understand? That’s what that damned strange glow is, it’s the actual _blessing_ of Tzeentch, not some back-handed boost!”

“B-but if Tzeentch…” Aevar had to spit it out just to say it. “They’re got to be a catch. If he ‘blessed’ me, how come I couldn’t fix the Throne?”

“Of course there’s a catch!” Formerly Laura laughed. “There’s always a catch! _Life_ is a catch! I suggest you _catch it_ while you can.

“I doubt Tzeentch wanted you to fix the Throne. No, he wanted me _off_ the Throne, not to have the Throne _fixed_. That’s got to be the catch, the one and only limit on this blessing: you couldn’t fix the Throne.

“Yea, that makes sense. Tzeentch knew that the Throne shouldn’t be fixed by you, he wanted _me_ to fix it. He’d want me off it. Off the Throne, alive and kicking.”

Aevar could remember Luther’s mad giggling.

_“The Empress is on his Throne. On the Throne, and up the creek. No paddle is in sight.”_

“He’d want me alive,” the Empress continued, “because he knew how much I fucking _hate_ being worshipped. He knew I’d get rid of the damned Ecclesiarchy and the Cult, put the Truth back in place.”

“The Ecclesiarchy cannot simply be dissolved,” Croan said.

“Exactly! Look what they did!” The Emperor said. “Split my Imperium down the middle! Don’t you get it? Well, not so much down the middle. It’s like a divorce, and they took damn near everything.”

“No,” Aevar gasped.

“He gets it! The Blessed gets it!” The Emperor said. “Chaos couldn’t break my Imperium. If they couldn’t do it with Horus, nine fucking traitor Legion and their Primarchs, their accompanying navies, with more than half of the full armored might of Mars, with fuck-mothering _Titans_ , what the crap makes you think they could do it with this failure they got? Horus and _nine traitor Legions_ couldn’t destroy the Imperium, so he destroyed it with a loyalist! He destroyed it with you!”

Aevar fell to his knees.

“He gave you this totally legit, one-hundred percent Scot Free blessing, so you could get you to get me off my Throne,” the Emperor said. “You’re the right man, in the wrong place, and it made all the difference in the world. My Imperium is broken, and _you_ are the reason for it.”

Aevar was crying. From the very beginning he was manipulated, played with since he could walk on the ice. All for this moment, all to destroy the Imperium, all to destroy everything he held dear, to damn him, to damn humanity, to damn Maeva, to damn his Chapter, and Laura…oh Throne, what did he do to Laura?

“That’s why Tzeentch said ‘just as planned;’ he must have been planning this for centuries,” the Emperor mused. “Maybe longer? I’ve never seen a blessing like that, but knowing that nerd, he’d probably try this out a few more times to get things right.

“Man, now _that_ boggles the mind: how many times has he tried this? There could have been hundreds of people who had your blessing. But how many of them were killed for it? How many of them messed up? Shit, you’re a one in a trillion. Maybe a quintillion. Fuck, maybe more.”

There was still one thing he could do, one thing to make everything right, one thing that could make it up to Laura. He reached to his belt and pulled out his paring knife. He was about to sink the blade into his neck when an invisible force stopped him. He smelled the immaterium grabbing him, pinning him to place. He tried to resist it, but the power was overwhelming.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The Emperor said, glaring at him with glowing eyes. The Emperor was holding him in place with her psykic might.

“I’m a fucking traitor,” he cried. “I’m the destroyer of the Imperium, all because I did what anyone loyal would have done. Just let me fucking end it.”

“And get rid of that blessing of yours?!” The Emperor demanded. “Fuck no. I still got some use for you.”

“Please, let me die,” Aevar cried.

“I couldn’t figure out how the webway worked. Not with Horus turning traitor and blowing the crap outta everything. I lost a lot of time with it. But with you, maybe your blessing can be the key to figuring it out. I mean, you got that blessing; might as well use it, right?”

Aevar tried to move his hand, but the Emperor’s psykic might held him fast. He tried to bring his servo-arms around, but they were pinned as well.

“Disarm him,” the Empress demanded. Two Custodes walked up to him. Frozen in place, he was powerless as they wrenched the knife from his hands, and took Katla and Iounn from him.

“And his servo-arms.”

Aevar howled as his servo-arms were cut off. The feedback from the artificial nerves was incredible, like his own flesh and blood arms were being sliced off.

“Take him to his room and take his armor off, I’ll find some use for him later,” the Emperor commanded. The Emperor let him go, only for the two Custodes to haul him up and carry him off. “And put him on suicide watch. At least one person with him at all times, nothing pointy or sharp near him. I don’t want to waste this blessing.”

Aevar screamed, trying to get free. He couldn’t live like this, as a traitor. As the greatest traitor that the Imperium had ever seen.

“Now, I’mma take a shower and think about what to do about my Imperium,” the Emperor said as Aevar was carried off. “You two tech priests seem to know Aevar pretty well; I’ll need you to hang around for a while. You?” She looked at Helfist. “I got no idea what to do with you. Want a ride back to Fenris? I’m sure you could give that death worlder some company.”


	40. Empire's End

Lynia sighed as she walked through the Imperial Palace. She wanted to pray, to enjoy the reverence of the sacred place, but hearing the Imperial Truth from the Emperor’s own mouth denied her that small comfort. She wanted to damn Aevar, but for some reason couldn’t. At least she was able to leave her power armor behind; she had spent nearly the last two months living in it. Her robes felt that much more luxurious, despite being spun from rough spun, nearly sackcloth-like wool.

She walked down the hall to her assigned quarters, and was surprised to see Helfist cleaning his out. A Custode stood guard, making sure he took everything of his and not a thing more. Two servitors were there, helping him move things about. They stood by two massive wooden barrels.

“Leaving so soon?” She asked.

The red-haired Vlka looked up. He was scared, his movements quick and jerky, like he expected to be attacked at any moment.

“Leaving? Aye, I’m fucking leaving. I had my fill of everything here.”

“Fill of what?”

“Fucking everything,” he spat, shoving crocheting needles and yarn into a bag. Charms and totems went next. “Of damned secrets, of plans and plots, of seeing fucking Laura jumping around like a damned puppet on a string.”

 Lynia knew the feeling too well. Seeing Laura being used as a catalyst for the Emperor…she never wished to see that.

“Where is Aevar?”

Helfist laughed. At first it was a single bark, but then he broke into a rough peel of mad laughter.

“The fucking Blasphemer,” he spat. Lynia reacted, jerking back like she was hit. She had called Aevar the Blasphemer plenty of times, but to hear it come from his closet brother shocked her. “He’s been trying to off himself.”

“What?” She gasped. “That can’t be.”

“Oh, it fucking is,” Vermund said. “If I were in his shoes, I’d try to do the same! ‘Blasphemer.’ Should’ve been called the damned Ruiner, if you ask me.”

“’Ruiner?’ What happened?”

“Why don’t you ask him,” Helfist said. “The Custodes might let you in. They got him on suicide watch.”

“I’m growing sick and fucking tired of having shit like this dropped on me,” Lynia snapped. “First it is Laura being used like a puppet, then it’s the Emperor denying his own divinity, then it’s the truth about the Imperial Cult, the very bedrock of our faith. _Then_ it is the High Lords of Terra branding us traitors and absconding Terra, and _now_ it’s that Aevar Ironclaws has been placed on damned suicide watch. You will tell me what the fuck is going on, mutant!”

Helfist was taken back from her outburst.

“Damn, that’s some bite you got. No wonder he likes you,” he said. “You’d never believe me. You’d best hear it from him.”

Helfist reached into his bag and pulled out a thick ball of wrapped leather.

“Give him this,” he said. “It’s for making mjod. He’ll need it. Fekke, I even got some shit-brewed Fenrisian ale in here for you. Might not be the best it can be, it needs time to age, but it’s all yours.”

“What is the meaning of this? Explain yourself.”

“The Emperor dropped a fucking exterminatus-sized bomb on us,” Helfist said. “It fucking destroyed greybeard, and he’s being kept on watch to keep from offing himself. It’s really the only thing he can do now. Croan and Legato are being kept, too, but I’m getting off this damned rock as soon as I fucking can. I’ve had enough of this shit; I just want to get back to Fenris. I’ve been gone way too long.”

He cinched up his bags and slung them over his shoulders. Reaching into one of his ammo pouches, he pulled out two flasks.

“This big one is mjod,” he said. “You don’t drink that. The one with a leather wrap is Fenrisian ale. You can drink as much of that as you fucking like, you’ll probably need it. And take the barrels, they’re marked as ale of mjod. Do what you want with ‘em.”

“Where did you get the barrels?”

“Same way I got the barrels in your monastery. I made ‘em.”

“You _made_ them?”

“What? They’re just wood with bands of iron wrapped around them. You got plenty of that lying around. Just had to do some carving to get them in shape.”

“I’ve been around you wolves too long,” she sighed. “This doesn’t surprise me the least.”

That got Helfist to laugh; a true, honest laugh this time. No spite or madness behind it.

“I’d say good-bye, but with the crap we’re in, we’ll probably see each other again.”

“And I thought our lives would get better if the Emperor was ever revived from the Throne,” Lynia said.

“Yea, the ice is always smoother on the other lake, ain’t it?”

“Until then, Vermund Helfist.”

“I’ll be waiting, Canoness-Preceptor Lynia.”

Vermend walked down the hall, towards the hanger bay that Lynia came from, the Custode followed him. The blank-eyed servitors stared dead ahead. One started to drool.

“Get those two barrels,” she ordered. “Follow me.”

The servitors moved to life, going into the room and rolling the barrels down the hall with her. She walked through the halls, towards where Aevar’s quarters were.

She rounded a corner, and heard someone crying. It immediately struck a chord.

The Sisters often worked with the Inquisition, and had kept many prisoners for them. Lynia had heard this same kind of crying, howling, before; it was the cries of someone who had lost everything. It was of someone who was in pain just by living. Just as Helfist said, a Custode stood by the door.

“State your business,” the Custode said.

“I am Canoness-Preceptor Lynia, of the Valorous Heart. I am here to see Aevar Ironclaws.”

“What are those things you bring?”

“Barrels of liquid,” she said. Living with the wolves _had_ rubbed off on her; she was intentionally vague while telling the Custode exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Surrender all your weapons,” the Custode ordered. “Ironclaws is on suicide watch. Nothing that can be used as a weapon go in.”

Lynia surrendered her bolt pistol to him. The Custode reached down and pulled her pin off her breast. It was the icon of the Valorous Heart, and it held a stiletto behind it, should a Sister be forced to take her life to maintain her purity.

She was secretly hoping that the Custode would miss it.

“Stand here, spread your arms,” he said, pointing to the wall. Lynia obeyed, and the Custode pulled out a small scanner. He ran it over her, then the casks, examining them for any potential contraband. He then examined the servitors, but found nothing worth being seized.

He opened the door, and Aevar’s crying rose. Aevar was relieved of his armor, leaving him in rough undergarments. He only wore what looked like rough-spun wool pants and a shirt, though the shirt didn’t fully cover his black carapace, leaving him mostly shirtless.

There were light burn marks and cuts long his skin. It was like he was forcibly cut out of his armor. The inside of the room was a mess. Aevar had seemed to tear it apart, throwing everything about. Lynia blinked; he didn’t have is servo-arms. She _never_ saw him without his servo-arms before; it was like he was utterly naked.

The biggest change was not his clothes, but his hair. His long hair and bushy beard, normally pristinely cared for, were in utter disarray. He seemed to have pulled, twisted, and torn off many of the locked braids, even many parts of his beard. Lynia hadn’t seen such mourning in years.

“By the Throne, what happened?” She gasped. Aevar said nothing, he just sat on the ground, crying. “Your servo-arms…”

“They think I’d try to kill myself with them,” he mumbled. “They’re right. This…This is all my damn fault, every single piece of it. The armor, the blades, the Truth, Laura…oh, Russ’ blood, Laura…”

He pounded the ground.

“Little Laura, she ain’t coming back. And it’s because of me. Damn it, it’s all my damn fucking fault!!”

Suddenly Lynia knew what Helfist meant by Aevar needing a drink. She waved the servitors in and handed him the flask of mjod.

“A gift from Helfist,” she said. Aevar snatched it from her, twisted the top off and downed the entire flask in seconds. He belched loudly. She handed him the leather bag. “He also gave you this. Said it was thing to make mjod with, but he left. Said he couldn’t stay here any longer.”

“Couldn’t stand _me_ any longer.”

Lynia pointed to a chair that somehow survived being thrown about the room. It was built for a mortal, making it useless to an Astartes. She knew she could take the chair, but asked for it to be respectful. Aevar waved it off; he didn’t care. She sat, and twisted the top off the flask.

“That ain’t mjod, is it?” Aevar asked. “I can’t have you leaving me, too.”

“No, Fenrisian ale,” she said. “I’m here for you, I’ll always be here. Remember what I promised you back on Dimmimar?”

“How could I forget?” He mumbled. “But this shit all changes.”

“Please, tell me what happened.” Lynia paused. Aevar had drained his flask, shaking it to get the very last drop. “The cask over there has more mjod.”

Aevar crawled towards the barrel to re-fill his flask. Lynia had to look away; it was painful to watch a member of the Emperor’s Angels, let alone her closest, dearest friend act in such a way. She distracted herself by taking a pull of the ale. It was dark and heavy, almost like she was drinking a full meal. It was bitter, but had a sweet aftertaste, like berries were thrown into it to soften it up.

“Well? What do you think?” He asked, taking another pull of mjod. “Is it a shit brew?”

“You’re forgetting that I’m not a connoisseur of ale,” she said. “My vow of temperance lasted up until a week ago.”

“Why give it up?”

“We’ve had to give a lot of things up,” she said. “The Truth took everything away from us.”

“ _Another_ thing I fucked up and ruined,” Aevar said as he sat against the wall, drinking.

“How could this be your fault? The Emperor sprung that news on us,” she said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Trust me, I fucked this _all_ up.” Lynia wanted to ask why, but Aevar took another drink. “What are you here for? Here to rub it in, how I crossed too many damn lines, how I should’ve seen this all coming before?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Lynia said. “I could if you wanted me to, but my heart’s just not into it.”

“Ha! Then what’s your fucking heart into?”

Lynia smiled. She started feeling warmer; the ale was working fast, especially since she hadn’t eaten in over a day.

“You know that the Sisters have allied themselves to the Emperor,” she said. “But, by the…shit, what do I ever _say_ now that I can’t prey anymore?”

“’Fekke’ always worked for me.”

“Well, we almost _didn’t_ side with her, for fekke’s sake,” she spat. “You don’t understand. Our faith is our shield—“

“I got a pretty damn good idea,” Aevar said, cutting her off. His voice was getting slurred; the mjod must work quick. Then again, he was pounding it like it owed him money.

“You don’t,” Lynia spat. “For millennia, we were faithful. We prayed. We believed. Now, we can’t. Just hearing that everything we held dear was a traitor’s lie, it ruined us. And if anyone short of the damned Prioress said it, we would have burned them to ash for even thinking it.

“We were having a convent, a gathering of all the canonesses of all the Militant Orders when the Prioress told us. We were planning what to do for the Black Crusade when she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. She told us the lie we had all swallowed for so long. Some of my sisters wanted to burn her, to label her a heretic.

“But she was the Prioress, dammit. The second-highest ranking, the second-holiest member of our order. And with the rank of Abbess being absent for centuries, she was the voice of the entire Sororitas. Her loyalty was absolute, her integrity beyond any and all reproach. We had to believe her.

“I…I never wanted to kill myself, but just knowing that we believed in such a lie, of who _made_ the damn lie, I…I was tempted to pick up my pistol and…”

She couldn’t continue, so she drank.

“Do you know what it’s like? To live a lie so thoroughly, you couldn’t imagine your life without it?”

“More than you know,” Aevar said. “When you found out about the Truth, you had your sisters to turn to. I found out about it by myself. I thought I brought chaos into the Imperial Palace. Can you imagine that?”

“Imagine what, you turning traitor, or having such a revelation in the Palace?”

“You don’t think what I did was traitorous?”

“You’re the Blasphemer, not the Traitor,” Lynia said. “I never questioned your loyalty.”

“Don’t get fucking soft on me, you old bat.”

“It is the truth,” Lynia said. “I knew how… _rabidly_ loyal the Space Wolves are. I knew before you were sentenced to my planet. But I couldn’t question my orders, and I had to remain vigilant. But I knew that your loyalty could not be in question; why else would you be alive?”

“To be used as a fucking puppet.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I…I can’t. Not right now, it’s too raw,” he mumbled.

“When the day comes, please tell me,” Lynia said. “When the Prioress told us the Truth, we didn’t know what to do. I had half a mind to blow my brains out right then and there. I _wanted_ to. That’s when I realized that many of my sisters might follow my example. I couldn’t let that happen. They had that look in their eyes, the kind of look you’d see in men and women in a lifeboat adrift in the void for weeks. They were lost, and they were looking for salvation. Ha, ‘salvation.’ The Emperor would curse that word.

“That’s when I had an epiph…a moment of clarity: I would be killing myself instead of the traitors; I would be making their job easier. And I would certainly not give them the damned satisfaction of killing myself.

“So I spoke. I told them all that only the Emperor command us to do anything; we only listened to the Ecclesiarchy because the Emperor himself was beyond our reach. We were beholden to the Emperor, _not_ the men and women who rule in his stead.

“With the Emperor off the Throne, we don’t need to listen to the Synod, for the Emperor is now with us. And if the Emperor commands something, it must be true, and we can only obey. If he says that we cannot worship, then we shall use our faith to surrender it to him.

“I told the convent that the Emperor might not be a god, but it shouldn’t affect our job. We are the Sisters of Battle, the bringers of the Emperor’s will, his fury manifest. There were still traitors out there to kill, there was still the realm of man to protect. The Imperium needs its guards, and we are not the weak-kneed maidens many present us as. We had a duty to slay the traitor, and we needed to focus on that above all.”

The words caught in her throat as she remembered what happened next.

“And…and they listened to me,” she said. “I was speaking, yelling. They needed to be brought to action, and I was pushing them to it, and…and the way they were looking at me…it was like they had found their purpose, the very reason to live.

“It was as if they were mere aspirants, novice advances, and _I_ was a Prioress. There were women many years older than me, _decades_ older than me, who had seen more war than I, who had witnessed countless miracles in the Emperor’s name. They were my superiors, but they were listening to me. They looked at me, begging me to continue.”

Lynia took a long pull of ale.

“I…I kept talking. How we had to drive off the traitor, kill the mutant and bring order back to the Imperium. And when I was done, they agreed with me. They said I was truly wise, and that we needed to do what I proposed. We asked that the Emperor tell us the Truth himself, and she did. And my sisters gave up their faith, all because of what I said. And we went to war, all because of what I said.

“Remember when we talked about power, the year before Laura was born? How you said that our power was not real, that it was given to us by men who were steps removed from the true power, from the Emperor? You were right.”

Lynia realized that her words were slurring. The room seemed to float.

“Dammit all, you were _right_.” She was only dimly aware that she was crying. “I had no real power then, just like I have no real power now. But now, the way my sisters were looking at me, it was like I had _all_ the answers, I could have said anything. Anything!

“I could have said that we need to follow the High Lords of Terra, and they would follow it without question. I could have declared myself the new Abbess, the sole ruler of the Sororitas. I could have declared myself the sole High Lord of Terra, the true ruler of the Imperium. I could have become the next Goge Vandire and plunge the Imperium into yet another civil war. I could have started another Age of Apostasy, another Reign of Blood, and they would have blindly followed me!”

Her hands were shaking. The feeling of terror had not abated the least since the convent had met, and she had met the Emperor.

“They’re still looking to me for advice, for leadership,” she mumbled. “They still want me to give them the answers. Fekke, I don’t know them! I don’t even know the questions, let alone the answers! I know nothing about what to do, I’m just as scared as they are. I’m just a scared little girl. But they want me to lead.

“We’re all scared little kids,” Aevar mumbled. “Even the biggest of us get scared and want someone else to take care of them.”

Lynia laughed; it was so dumb, so clichéd, that it had to be true.

“I’ve heard whispers from others close to the canonesses. They’re thinking of making me the next Abbess, the true leader of the Sororitas, just because I spoke up!

“Now I know what you meant by us ‘bending the knee’ too easily. We want answers, we want to be led, to be held and told everything will be fine. We want it so bad, we’ll put anyone in power just so we could feel safe. And they want me to be that person, to tell them it will all be okay. They want to give me that power, and I don’t want it. I never wanted that power, but they want to give it to me, for nothing!”

Lynia suddenly realized she was crying. She dried her eyes, either panic or the ale making her hands shake.

“Fekke, you need a drink as bad as I do,” Aevar slurred.

“Is that all you have to say?” Lynia demanded, stumbling to her feet. She had finished her flask, and found it very difficult to stand up. “I might be the next person to destroy the Imperium, to break it in two, and that’s _all_ you have to say?!”

“You’re not going to break the Imperium up,” Aevar laughed. “I’ve already done that.”

“What do you mean?” Lynia asked, refilling her flask.

“I was used,” he said. “Just a tool to be used. I danced to a merry little jig from Tzeentch, and I did all the work for him. I found the Truth, just like Tzeentch wanted. I made things no one had ever made before, just like he wanted. I…I made Laura, just so she could be used by the Emperor. And when the Emperor got off the Throne…dammit, _everything_ broke.

“He wants the Imperial Truth put back in place. That shit won’t fly with the High Lords, the Ecclesiarchy, the Imperial Guard, fucking everyone! Shit, _you_ were right that people need their faith. The Emperor took it away from them, and look where it got us. The Imperium is fucking broken. It’s more broke than when Horus turned traitor. And I’m the one who fucking caused it all. If it wasn’t for me, shit, none of this would have happened.”

Lynia stared at him. The Imperium _was_ broke; the High Lords had seen to that. But to be the man responsible for it? Helfist was right, Aevar needed that mjod.

“But didn’t you say that the Throne was failing?” Lynia asked. Somehow, she remembered what he said when Laura’s lineage was revealed.

“It was. We’d be damned no matter what we did. But I’m the one who ruined this shit for everyone.”

“By the…no wonder you’re on suicide watch.”

“Lynia, have I ever told you that I love you?”

“A few times, when we were both alone.”

“And you said you loved me, too?”

“Of course.”

“Then if you truly loved me, could you bring me a knife?” Aevar asked. “I can’t live like this. Being a tool used by Tzeentch to destroy the Imperium, to losing Laura like this…I can’t stand it. Can you help me kill myself?”

Lynia knew mercy when she saw it.

“I’ll see what I can do, but the Custodes are good at their jobs.”

“Guess I’ll better try to drink myself to death.”

“I might join you with that. I’ll most likely be the one to ruin everything for the Sisters,” Lynia said. “Voted into an office I don’t want.”

“Loving a fucking latent traitor, to boot. This galaxy isn’t for us old fuck ups.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Aevar raised his flask, his arm unsteady. Lynia smashed her flask against his and nearly fell to the ground; she was drunker than she thought she was.

“Do you think we’re done for?” She asked. “The Imperium, I mean. No, not the Imperium, but humanity; are we done?”

“The answer is at the bottom of the flask,” he said. “But I should warn you: the truth won’t set you free.”

“If only you told yourself that all those years ago.”

“If only I’d listen.”

 

* * *

 

The transport landed on the ship, and Helfist got off. It was just a simple rogue trader, one of the few that somehow survived when the High Lords purged the ‘unfaithful.’ He hefted the two bags he had and stepped onto the docking bay.

“Maeva?”

Maeva and a strange, deathly pale woman sat together by the cargo. Both of them were crying, but the pale woman was worse off. The pale woman wore a strange kind of black synthetic catsuit.

“Is that…Geist, is that you?” He asked.

The pale woman nodded.

“I never seen you without your mask. Shit, you always that pale?”

Geist glared at him.

“Sorry, just strange, you know?”

“Where’s Ironclaws?” Maeva asked. “He’s ain’t with ya?”

Helfist’s hair stood on edge. He unconsciously snarled. Maeva shrunk away, while Geist sat up taller, ready to attack him should he try anything.

“Fucking greybeard is on house arrest,” he said. “He’s staying in Terra.”

“Why?”

The Emperor’s mad words rung in his ears.

_Horus and_ nine traitor legions _couldn’t destroy the Imperium, so he destroyed it with a loyalist! He destroyed it with you!_

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Just want to get back to Fenris. I’ve been away too long.”

“I hate to disappoint you, my lord,” a woman’s voice said. Helfist turned around, “but we---Lord Helfist?”

Helfist spun around and came face to face with a certain Rogue Trader.

“Captain Agostina? What the Hel? This is your ship?”

“Last I checked,” Agostina said. She stood tall and regal, her mocha-brown skin seemingly flawless. It was like she hardly aged a day; warp travel must agree with her. “It is an honor to see you again.”

“Shit, the universe is getting damn small.”

“From what we can tell is going on, it is getting smaller and smaller,” Agostina said. “Is it true? Are the High Lords telling the truth? Has the Emperor been…taken over?”

Helfist gave a quick look to Maeva. She understood his glare: don’t say a word. His gave the same gaze to Geist, who nodded back. He blinked; somewhere between Agostina approaching, Geist had changed forms, turning into a regular dressed woman with a healthier skin pallor.

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” he said. “I saw the Emperor. He’s the Master of Mankind, and damn anyone who thinks he can be controlled.”

_He’s so in control, he’s taken over my little girl,_ he thought.

“Oh. That’s the greatest of news, then,” she sighed.

“Not really. Still means the High Lords turned traitor and took damn near the entire Imperium with ‘em. We got fucked hard and dry. Now how did you end up here?”

“We spread word of Dimmimar’s siege as far as we could,” Agostina said. “Eventually, a planetary governor hired us to carry him to Holy Terra. He thought the End Times were upon us, and wanted to make one last pilgrimage. We’ve traded with him before, and he knew how fast my ship is, thanks to Lord Ironclaws. Speaking of which, will he be joining us?”

“Old man Ironclaws is stuck on Terra.”

“I see. We carried the governor to Terra, and arrived just as news that the Black Crusade was crushed. We’ve been gathering goods to trade since. We had to run when the Imperial Navy turned traitor.”

“And you came back here?”

“We had to,” Agostina said. “Half my crew were still on Terra when the High Lords ran. We were almost conscripted into helping them flee, but we were too fast to be caught.”

“Damn. Ironclaws is still repaying you.”

“So it seems. Sadly, things have changed for the worse,” she said. “If you want to go to Fenris, we can’t take you; the planet is under siege.”

“What?” Helfist and Maeva roared. Agostina flinched, more from Helfist than Maeva.

“I, I’m sorry, my lord, I thought you knew,” she said. “Word just came through. The Imperial Navy and Inquisition forces have placed the planet under siege. The Red Hunters Space Marine Chapter is assisting them.”

“Fuckers,” Helfist snarled. “Knew they’d never be able to put up with us.”

“I’m sorry, but the system is simply too hot. We can’t get anywhere near it,” Agostina said. “We’re fast, yes, but we’re only traders. We wouldn’t last a second near it.”

“No need to apologize, I know your limits,” Helfist said. “But we’ll need transport to a ship that can take us back. Shit, with everything throw tits up, that might be too much to ask for.”

“Please, lord, we are happy to help,” Agostina smiled. “After all, you have done much for us, it is the least we can do.”

“My thanks, captain. I may not be a Jarl, but I can still promise you that you’ll still have at least one friendly face on Fenris should you find yourselves in our neck of the woods,” Helfist said. “Well, if we’re stuck without a ride back to Fenris, might as well help you out on your trade routes.”

“Your help is greatly appreciated, Lord Helfist,” Agostina smiled, bowing politely, “but it is an honor to help you in any way.”

“Don’t be, I’m used to working for my pay. But the second you have a ship for all three of us, we’ll be jumping off.”

“Got a question,” Maeva asked. “Ya need another hand? One ta stay on permanently?”

“You don’t want to go back to Fenris?” Vermund asked.

“Not right now,” Maeva said. “Maybe not ever. Bein’ home…it’ll remind me a Laura, even though she wasn’t born there.”

“You lost your daughter?” Agostina asked.

“Yea. Yea, we did,” she mumbled, taking Geist’s hand. “I remember bein’ on Dimmimar, an’ traders were always picked up hands. Folks who needed somethin’ new, who had nothin’ goin’ fer ‘em, tha’ sorta thin’. Think I could use tha’, yea?”

“They might have taken those they needed, but you still need to have a skill we can use,” Agostina said. “I don’t mean to be ruthless, but my ship is small; I have to be pragmatic.”

“Shit, I got tha’ covered,” Maeva said. “I’m good with machines. Might not be a tech-priest proper, but I worked with Ironclaws fer decades. I know my way ‘round a forge an’ can fix shit pretty damn good.”

“What about your friend?”

“This one—I am also skilled in the repair of the machine-spri—the machine,” Geist said. Helfist did a double-take. He never heard Geist refer to herself as an ‘I.’ “I’m also skilled with infiltration, should the need arise.”

“’Infiltration?’” Agostina arched her eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Care to be more specific?”

“No.”

“I vouch for them,” Helfist said. “They’re good at what they do, and they’ll help you out plenty.”

“Well, I’m not certain what needs we’ll have for an ‘infiltrator,’ but if Lord Helfist speaks highly of you, that will suffice,” Agostina said. “You’ll still need time to think this through. The life of a trader is rough, dangerous, and always in motion. And we’ll always be in the warp. You have until we can arrange transport for Lord Helfist to make up your mind.”

“Thanks,” Maeva said.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to check my ship. We have to break orbit soon,” Agostina said. She bowed, and left.

“Are you certain you do not wish to return to Fenris?” Geist asked. “You always talk about returning there.”

“Yea, but…th’ longer I think of home, th’ more I think of Laura,” Maeva said. “I can’t take tha’. Not right now, maybe not ever.”

“You said that you never wanted to be the woman who is incapable of moving on,” the assassin said.

“I thought tha’, too,” Maeva smiled. “But…but this is like somethin’ got torn outta me, ya know? Got this big hole, and I can’t go anywhere familiar. Just makes me think how big tha’ hole is, an’ I can’t take tha’. Geist, I’m sorry, but you’ll have ta wait ta meet my ma an’ pa.”

The assassin laughed.

“I’ll have to settle with traveling the galaxy with you,” she said, kissing her deeply.

“Alright, hold on, since when did you start saying ‘I?’” Helfist asked.

The two paid him no mind as they kept kissing.

“Fine, fine, I get it. I’ll just fuck off and leave you two alone. Have fun christening the cargo bay.”

 

* * *

 

Parsef had seen such chairs before. It was a massive, wooden chair. It was neither fine nor regal, but rather roughly cut to shape. It had been worn smooth with age and use; the hard edges were gone, turned into smooth corners by countless forms sitting in it. The chair was stained dark, and not from any finishing. Rather, it was polished dark by blood and rough washings.

He had pried many a confession from such a chair, and he always had a dim inkling that one day, he would end up in one.

He hated being right. Surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable. 

“Parsef, you know the stakes,” the voice said.

He couldn’t see who was speaking. He was sitting in a brilliant pillar of light, lit from the top and from the front by floodlights. He was completely blind, his eyesight washed out. He could only tell that the speaker was a woman, and little else.

“Of course I know the stakes,” he sighed. “The Imperium is shattered, and I’ve been caught working for the wrong side. How could I not?”

“Correct your tone, Parsef. I don’t need your snark.”

“I’ve been an Inquisitor for a very long time. I know what comes next, and I’d greatly appreciate it if we could just skip to the end.”

“Don’t toy with us—“

“I’ve cooperated fully with you, told you what I knew. I’d like to skip the torture and get right to the execution.”

A fist shot out and hit him in the face. He felt his teeth rattle.

“Very well,” he said, spitting out blood, “what else do you wish to know?”

“Who was your contact with the traitorous Inquisition?”

“Like I told you before, a Grandmaster.”

“What was his name?”

“Like I said before, I didn’t know his name. And he never told me. Probably to avoid situations like this.”

“You never once asked him for his name?”

“How stupid do you think I am? Even If I _did_ ask him, what makes you think he would tell me?”

“Was anything said about the Ultramar sector? Macragge? The High Lords escaping the Emperor’s justice?”

“Again, I know nothing. We were only used try and suppress the Emperor’s attempt to enforce the Imperial Truth. Faith had to be maintained.”

“And you were told nothing else.”

“We were a tool with a single purpose. Bad that the Emperor had eviscerated our faith, worse that the entire Imperium suffers the same fate.”

“That is for the Emperor, and the Emperor alone, to decide.”

“As I know now.”

The fist struck him again, sending him reeling.

“Your tongue is not helping your case.”

“Please, I’m an Inquisitor. I know the process,” he said. “My usefulness has expired, and my life will soon, too. I’ve already told you everything that I’ve known.”

Papers were shuffled, and Parsef spat out more blood.

“You’re right about one thing, Parsef: you _have_ outlived your usefulness.”

He expected to feel devastated, but he was surprised that he only felt relief. This whole thing would be over soon.

“You have willfully subverted the will of the Emperor,” the voice said. “You have attempted to undermine everything he aims to accomplish. Your sentence—“

“Is death, I know,” Parsef said. “Please spare me the drama, you blood simple brute. Just know that this job will change you, and you _will_ burn out. Hel, you might even find yourself in this very chair in the not-too-distant future.”

He saw the bolt pistol being raised. Maybe in another life he’d do better.

 

* * *

 

 Laura sat in the strange warp-like place that must be the Emperor’s mind. She had tried everything to escape, but the power was all-consuming. It was like trying to drain an ocean with a sponge.

From what she could see in the Emperor’s mind, and from what she knew from her Aunt Lynia, being kept in solitary conferment often drove one mad.

She guessed it was only a matter of time until she lost her mind, if she hadn’t already.

The scene, the memory, she was watching was of the Emperor in a laboratory. He was making something, possibly gene-related. Possibly making the Primarchs, or the Space Marines.

With little else to do, Laura could only watch. Maybe there would be something in here that could help her escape.

Something happened weeks/months/decades/minutes ago that nearly broke the Emperor’s hold on her. Almost like the warp surged in, nearly sweeping everything away. But the Emperor’s grip on her was too strong. She was herself for one fleeting moment, then she was back in his memory, his grip on her even stronger than normal.

So she watched, letting the memories play out to her, hearing his internal voice madly narrate his memories. She’ll find a way out. She had to.

 

* * *

 

Kemuel walked through the Palace. One of his brothers was standing guard at the door of Aevar’s room.

“How is Ironclaws?” He asked.

“Still alive.”

Kemuel realized that he pitied the poor wolf. He wondered if it was his years of duty guarding him. He missed their rough humor, loud voices, and boasting. He actually considered the Wolves his friends, not just his mark.

Then again, it wasn’t every day that one found out that they were the reason for the destruction of the Imperium. No wonder he was on suicide watch.

He pushed the door open. Aevar was on the floor, sleeping like the dead. Lynia slept on top of him, similarly passed out. Both were clothed, but barely. It took more than one hard rap of his spear against the floor to rouse Lynia.

“You are both called to the war room,” he said. “The Emperor demands you.”

He jabbed Aevar in the side with the butt end of his spear, but gently. The Space Wolf woke with a start.

“The Emperor does not like being held up,” he said.

“I’m awake,” Lynia mumbled. “I’m…”

The sister trailed off and made a grab for a waste basket. Kemuel grimaced as she vomited loudly.

“Oh, Throne, my head…”

Aevar pulled himself to his feet. He looked like shit.

“The Sisters will not like seeing that one of their own had broken her vow of temperance,” Kemuel said. “Or knowing she slept with a Space Wolf.”

“Fuck what they say,” Lynia moaned into the basket. “They want to make me Abbess.”

“Got any water?” Aevar mumbled.

Kemuel stepped out into the hallway and grabbed a servitor.

“Bring as much water as you can carry.”

“As you order,” the brain-dead thing stammered.

“You are required to meet with the Emperor,” he said, stepping back into the room. “We cannot dally here.”

“Can we dally on our way there?” Aevar asked.

“I do not like this as much as you,” he sighed, “but we are required to get to the war room.”

“Fine, fine,” Aevar grumbled. “Come on, Lynia, _we’re expected_.”

Kemuel ignored the sarcasm dripping from his voice. But he had to give Lynia another minute until she stopped throwing up. By then, the servitor came back with water. Lynia drank more water than Aevar.

“We are late,” his Custode brother said. As they left the room, Lynia was given her pin back, the one with a stiletto built into the back. As a precaution, Kemuel walked between her and Aevar. The Emperor made it clear that Aevar could not die by his own hand, and his conditioning and training forbid him from breaking an order from the Master of Mankind.

They walked the two through the Imperial Palace, leading to the Emperor’s war room. It was little more than the dining room with an added holographic projector.

The remnants of the Imperium leadership were waiting for them. Most notable was Lion El’Jonson, but the Sisters of Battle’s leadership, namely the two Pioress and the six Canoness Superiors took up the most space.

Croan and Legato were there, as well as the Fabricator General of Mars, and a few members of the Imperial Navy who hadn’t defected. From the looks on their faces, they were rank and file members who suddenly found themselves thrust into the spotlight of high command; they were so out of place it was painful. They didn’t even have any badges to reflect their new offices.

The Emperor idly chattered as she ate breakfast, two Custodes at her sides. Various jars of hot sauce lined her table edge, and she casually dumped heaps of it on what appeared to be a massive, fluffy omelet.

“Wow, you two look like crap,” she laughed. “And you’re still drinking?”

Kemuel spun around; Aevar had smuggled a flask into the room.

“Fuck off, it’s hair of the dog,” he snapped.

“Spoken like a true alcoholic,” the Empress laughed.

“You can’t let me die, so just let me have this.”

“Be my guest. But from the looks of it, the Sister doth hath partaken too much as well.”

The Sisters at the table gave Lynia looks mixed with shock, horror, and betrayal. She ignored them all and took a seat, cradling her head. A servitor served her breakfast, but she pushed it away.

“Make sure he eats,” the Empress said, pointing at Aevar with a fork. “Force-feed him if necessary. I don’t want my lucky charm wasting away, or drinking all his calories. “

A brother Custode walked towards Aevar, but the wolf spared him the trouble. Ironclaws ate like an automation, as something that had to be done to avoid having the food shoved down his throat.

“Now, down to business,” Formerly Laura said. “As most of you can probably tell, we found enough astropaths left over to take over our interplanetary-warp based phone system so yours truly doesn’t have to be locked up all the damn time. They’re keeping up with finding out who’s on who’s side. Records are sketchy, but it looks like they’re about a tenth of the way through, maybe less.

“Can’t tell a lie, we’re fucked. Royally fucked, and without any lube. So far, it looks like only one-in-ten planets are siding with us, and that number will probably go down some as we keep asking around, but we’re seriously under-funded and under-staffed.”

“There are two saving graces,” Lion said. “First, while a large majority of the planets have sided with the High Lords, there is a growing list of systems that are declaring themselves as independent kingdoms. The very act of not siding with the High Lords denies them resources, and gives us room to breathe. The more forces the High Lords have, the larger the chance that they will attack us; they will need to shore up their own resources before pressing any attack. These ‘pocket Imperiums’ give us much-needed breathing room.

“Our second grace it is that nearly all of the Space Marine Legions—my apologies, _Chapters,_ have sided with us. The exception to that is the Ultramarines and many of their successor Chapters. The bitter reality is that the High Lords knew that many Chapters would not submit to them, and since the High Lords have a lion’s share of the remaining Imperial Guard and Navy, they have placed many of the Space Marine home planets under siege.

“According to the Chapters, the High Lords have issued them an ultimatum: submit to the High Lords and undertake something called a ‘penance crusade’ against us, or be ground to dust. With their superior numbers and supplies, they very well might achieve the surrender they are looking for.

“There can be no lying; things are dire. Nearly all First Founding Chapters have found themselves fighting for their planets and survival. My Dark Angels, the Space Wolves, Salamanders, White Scars, they are all under siege. Having just fought off the traitor legions at Cadia, they are exhausted, and must be assisted.”

“You’ve asked to lead the charge to push the High Lord’s butt boys back,” the Empress said, “so what’s your plan?”

“My Chapter’s base, the Rock, is currently it is in the old orbit of Caliban, making it close to Cadia,” Lion said. “The forces of the High Lords have marshaled at Cadia; it is dangerous getting so close to it, but risks must be taken. My plan is to gather as many ships and troops as I can, and break the traitor’s siege at the Rock. Because the Rock is mobile, I plan to move it to nearby Fenris, where the Space Wolves have weathered an incredible assault from the Inquisition and the Red Hunters. Apparently, they do not like the wolves very much.”

“Fucking understatement,” Aevar spat. A Custode brother snatched something from his hand; Lynia had tried passing him a butter knife.

“Quite,” Lion said. “If we gather both our Chapters, we should be able to repel any assault the traitors launch; this will secure not only two First Founding Chapters, but it will also open a theater of battle in the northern section of the galaxy.”

Lion activated the holographic projector, and a map of the galaxy spun to life. Most of the galaxy was in red, while very little was in blue.

“The red are the traitors, and any force that has not declared their loyalty to us. The High Lords are marshalling their strength to the east, within the Ultramar sector, and the north, by this ‘eye of terror,’ and Cadia.

“Keeping the Rock and Fenris from falling will maintain our hold of the north, as well as isolating Cadia, their bastion. With Cadia surrounded, the High Lords stand to lose a large portion of their navy and guard. At least, we believe a large portion of their navy is in the system. Our last report may very well be out of date; they could have moved the Cadian shipyards to a more securely controlled theater.”

Lion gestured to the map.

“Our forces in the east, however, are in a far worse position than we are. The Segmentum Ultima sector is simply too big for us to currently engage in, even with the pocket Imperiums drawing the attention of the High Lords. Our navy is too damaged to pursue any large-scale action; I need to rely on the Sisters of Battle to carry out my plan to retake the Rock and Fenris.”

“And you shall have it,” one of the Canoness Superiors said. “We stand with the Emperor.”

“Again, my thanks,” Lion said. “Once we regain control of the galactic north, it will be a simple matter of placing the galactic west and south under blockade. It might take years or decades for their supplies to dwindle, but it frees us from having to actively lay siege, as well as losing any more forces from attrition.”

“How are we sitting with the Mechanicus?” The Emperor asked.

“We stand ready,” the Fabricator General said. “We have just received word from Mars that the Sisters and Ultramari—my apologies, the _Oathsworn_ , have broken the traitor’s fleet. Mars, its fleets, and the Titan Legions are heavily damaged, but ready to function at maximum capacity.”

“Sweet,” the Empress smiled. “Then get ready to make as many ships as you can.”

“Of course. Many of our forge worlds have declared their allegiance with you as well. Unfortunately, with so many of them in the galactic east, we suspect that the traitors will put them to siege, too. And it is not just the High Lords, it is these pocket Imperiums that are battering their doors.

“We are calling upon our sworn Imperial Knights, but against such numbers, even they will not last very long. The traitors might very well force them to submit, as well as forcing them to comply to their demands to create weapons and munitions.”

“It’s the smart thing to do,” Formerly Laura said. “That just means we’ll have to get ready to liberate them as soon as possible. Sisters, how’s the transition going?”

The Sisters looked amongst themselves, looking for a representative. Many looked to Lynia, who ignored them. A few Canonesses nudged her, and she reluctantly stood, first taking a pull from a hidden flask.

“We have some Sisters who still actively pray,” she said. It was like she was having a tooth pulled. “They are desperate for any connection to the Emperor, but we’re working on it as we speak.”

“Hey, as long as progress is made.”

“Much like the Mechanicus, we have worlds behind enemy lines. Our Sisters will fight the traitors, but we fear the worst,” Lynia said as she sat back down.

“Man, this whole ‘battle through attrition’ thing is a bitch,” the Empress groaned. “Maybe we can kill a few birds with one stone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alright, I gotta be straight with you: when I came up with the idea for the Space Marines, I was in a bad place,” the Empress said. “The Age of Strife was in full swing, and humanity was losing shit left and right. It left me really, really bitter. So, I came up with the idea of making an army out of the most perfect thing: myself.

“Couldn’t clone myself, not reliably and on that scale, so I came up with the Space Marines. Being bitter and in a bad place made me decide they should all be men; it was a bad case of misogyny mixed with narcissism. So, to help restore our numbers, maybe even help out with Sister morale, why not have the Sisters undergo the augmentation process? This gives us more Marines, and it gives the Sisters that connection to me they always wanted.”

“You can do that?” Aevar mumbled.

“Uh, yea, I came up with the process,” the Emperor groaned. “Space Marines have a small, tiny derivative of my genes in them; they tend to be loyal to me. And, from what I’m gathering, the Sisters of Battle keep praying to me because they want to be closer to me. So why not solve both problems? Get more marines, and the Sisters get a brand-spankin’ new connection to me. How does that sound, Sisters?”

“They might like that,” Lynia mumbled, cradling her head.

“Great. That _also_ gives us some more Marines to help hold things together. Now we’ll have to get shit settled in the north damn fast so we can start rescue missions and blockade runs.”

“Once we have the north conquered, I shall begin work on it,” Lion said.

“So, shit’s fucked, but we can get something done in the north, and start getting allies back in the east,” the Emperor said. “And as I understand it, they have the numbers, but we have the specialists. Quality vs. quality. I hate those debates.

“Well, I’ll have to help out a little bit, but my main concern is getting started on this new webway project. I mean, I got my lucky charm here.”

Aevar didn’t react as the Emperor pointed her fingers at him. He still idly ate the food that was placed in front of him, all to avoid being force-fed. Kemuel never saw a Space Marine so thoroughly defeated.

“One last thing I want to get done,” the Empress said. Either he didn’t see Aevar’s completely defeated face, or he didn’t care. “Names.”

“Names?” Lion asked.

“Yup. Names,” Formerly Laura said. “Names are powerful. They give legitimacy and power to people and institutions, and galvanize people to action. Names carry power and weight. And right now, we need a new name for us.

“And I mean, come on, if we don’t change our name, we’ll have whole groups of people calling themselves ‘the Imperium of Man,’ and that’ll just get shit all kinds of confusing. Right?”

Kemuel had to admit, the Emperor had a point.

“We can go on calling the High Lords and their forces traitors. It’s what they are, right? But my Imperium needs a new name. Any ideas?”

“The Coalition of Man,” a sister said.

“The Greater Imperium,” one of the navy men said.

“The Damned Puppets,” Aevar grumbled, taking another pull from his flask. It earned him the ire of the assembly, but it was clear that he didn’t give a fuck.

“The Reforged,” Croan said.

“Ooh, I like that,” the Emperor said. “We were broken once, but we are whole now, and stronger for it. ‘The Reforged Imperium.’”

“It does have a ring to it,” Lion said.

“Then it’s settled,” the Emperor smiled. “We are the Reforged. Now let’s get out there, kill these traitors, and reforge my Imperium.”

The assembly stood, the new leadership of the remaining Navy, Guard and the Sisters of Battle went to Lion to be briefed on his plan to re-take the galactic north. Aevar stayed in his seat, picking at his food. Lynia stayed with him until a Sister dragged her away to the meeting with Lion. The Empress idly chattered to her guards as she waited for Lion’s war planning to start.

Croan and Legato cautiously approached Aevar, but after a moment’s hesitation, kept their distance and left the room. Kemuel remained where he was, stationed by the door.

They were going to re-unite the human empire. It was what the Emperor wanted more than anything: a Second Great Crusade.

But at the same time, Kemuel couldn’t help but think if it was even _possible_ to complete a new Crusade. His Little Laura’s mad words echoed in his ears.

_With faith, chaos will get into this universe, and chaos_ will _win_.

The High Lords would continue to propagate the Imperial Creed. People by the billions would continue to pray. And that power would feed the dark gods.

It was a new battle in the War Within the Webway. Endless fighting, just so they could retreat an inch instead of a foot. Brothers fighting and dying all around him, and the endless horde of daemons was brought against them.

Was this a true path to victory? No, it was another holding pattern. Another attempt to maintain something that was being destroyed. As the Wolves would say, it was like trying to grab water. The more they tried, the more it slipped through their fingers.

The High Lord’s abstention had done what Horus couldn’t: break the Imperium. Their greatest strength had always been their unity. But now, with dozens or even hundreds of pocket Imperiums, Chaos had their advantage: divide and conquer. The High Lords had seen to the division, all that was needed now was to pick up what had broken apart.

And Chaos would win.

But they had to continue. The very existence of the human race depended on them. They had to keep fighting, had to keep metaphorically grabbing water; there was no other option for them.

The Second Great Crusade hadn’t even truly begun, and it was already a crapshoot. A one in a decillion chance, if not more.

Kemuel looked at the Emperor. She sat, looking at Lion’s plan to re-take the galactic north. She seemed utterly unperturbed by the utter impossibility that loomed over them.


End file.
